


The Time Before

by M4R4N14MH



Series: For All Time and Space [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A Wedding(TM), Anathema Device Ships Aziraphale/Crowley, Anathema is a witch, And make Crowley uncomfortable, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley's Eyes (Good Omens), BAMF Adam Young (Good Omens), BAMF Beelzebub (Good Omens), BAMF Michael (Good Omens), Bad Parenting, Beelzebub has a Sweet Tooth, Beelzebub in Tartan, Celestial magic Freeform, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Kids (Good Omens), Crowley Loves the Bentley (Good Omens), Crowley has Trauma from the Fall (Good Omens), Demonic Possession, Everyone Needs A Hug, Explosions, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, God peaces out, Hastur and Ligur do cute couple things, Heaven & Hell, Heavy Angst, Hell Trauma, Hellhounds, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Is a thing that happened, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Jasmine Cottage (Good Omens), Love is a thing, M/M, Magic Rituals, Michael has anger issues, Multi, Nonbinary Beelzebub (Good Omens), Possession, Satan is an arse, She does Witchy Things(TM), Sibling Bonding, The Fall (Good Omens), The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), The Metatron is also an arse, The Second Apocalypse (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), Torture, Written by a devout atheist, actually everyone does, and hates that it has a mind of its own, basically Hell is involved, blows up, but there is fluff!, fucking around with the physical planes of Heaven and Hell, hellhound puppies, n'shit, people have been hurt, sort of demonic?, well not really demonic, which isn't new really, who loves these celestial idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 140,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26251690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M4R4N14MH/pseuds/M4R4N14MH
Summary: The Apocalypse is not long over and Aziraphale is looking forward to a life free of Heaven and Hell and, most importantly, full of a certain Anthony J. Crowley.That is, until reality attempts to set in again. Now Angels and Demons are being murdered, Heaven and Hell are in disarray, and Aziraphale reunites with a friend older than God Herself.Alpha Centauri has never looked so welcoming, in Crowley’s opinion.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley & Adam Young (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Crowley & Lilith (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub & Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub & Dagon (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Crowley & Anathema Device, Dagon & Hastur & Ligur & OC angel (Good Omens), Dagon & Hastur & Ligur (Good Omens), Dagon/Michael (Good Omens), Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens)
Series: For All Time and Space [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957642
Comments: 177
Kudos: 86





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This monster took me a lot longer than I'd like but I think I have achieved the impossible. I've actually FINISHED something. Which is unheard of (for me).
> 
> This the biggest and most ambitious story I have ever written and Beta'd by @FictiveFeline who put up with my writing long enough to help me improve it.  
> Updates should be fairly regular (hopefully daily).
> 
> Forewarning: This fic contains quite a bit of violence and some PTSD/trauma flashbacks. When you're dealing with the idiots from Above and Below its kinda hard to avoid. However, I know that's not everyone's cup of tea so for those particular chapters an extra warning will be in the notes at the beginning.
> 
> Other than that, enjoy!

_She sighed, a small exasperated sound in the muffled quiet._

_“Are we not in agreement?” Asked her Brother._

_“It isn’t for us to agree on.” Argued the soft voice of her Sister._

_They had been discussing—arguing really—for a very long time. Which in itself was a paradox considering time was no more defined in terms other than ‘that happened Before’ and ‘that happened After’ so they could have bickered for centuries or just a few minutes._

_It didn’t matter._

_The outcome was the same._

_The hesitant voice of another of her Brother’s spoke, “We know_ **_She_ ** _isn’t happy.”_

_The gathering collectively and silently agreed; this wasn’t news to them._

_“Lucifer is causing trouble.” Said a Brother._

_“When isn’t he?” Questioned a Sister._

_“What about the younger choirs, the new angels?” Asked another Sister._

_She sighed again, “He is swaying them with his Questions, his Doubts. He is the oldest, they look to him after_ **_Her_ ** _.”_

_A Brother chuckled humourlessly, “We aren’t so different, then.”_

_A pointed ‘hmph’ came from the Eldest of the Siblings, “If I hold such sway over us why are we still arguing?”_

_“_ **_She_ ** _deserves respect, Brother.” Said a Sister._

 _“_ **_She_ ** _Created the Universe,_ **_She_ ** _has children,_ **_She’s_ ** _making more._ **_She’s_ ** _not like us. We cannot judge_ **_Her_ ** _.” Added a Brother._

 _The Eldest snorted, a very human noise in a time when humanity is nothing more than atoms_ **_She_ ** _is yet to form._

 _The Youngest coughed politely; they were nothing if not polite, “Something is going to happen. Will_ **_She_ ** _be angry with us too?”_

_“No, Sister, I see no reason why_ **_She_ ** _should be.” Reassured another Sister, her soothing tone laced with the smallest hint of doubt._

 _A Brother hummed thoughtfully, “Anger rarely takes logic into account,_ **_She_ ** _could just punish anyone who questions_ **_Her_ ** _.”_

_There were a few murmurs of agreement._

_She turned to look across the endless desert._

_Dunes upon dunes of sand filled her vision, spilling out in front of her, an ocean illuminated by the sea of stars far above whose waves moved in increments, particle by particle, into new swirling whorls and tides._

_Another paradox._

_Oceans haven’t been invented yet._

_But she is different, she and her Siblings, who sit on the warm dunes under the new stars._

_She can imagine, unlike_ **_Her_ ** _children._

 **_Her_ ** _angels._

_She’d met them all and had adored every single one. As had her Siblings, endlessly fascinated with these new beings. Beings with cascading feathery wings who shone so brightly in the endless gloom of the never-ending night._

_The sun hadn’t been invented yet either._

_These vessels of love all loved_ **_Her_ ** _unconditionally, at least they had in the Beginning._

_That was before Him._

**_Her_ ** _Morningstar._

_She smiled to herself, a hard thing to do without a body but she managed, Lucifer was_ **_Her_ ** _first child. The first Archangel and the most powerful of the new race._

_He was also unashamedly charismatic, witty, and full of burning Questions. She and her Siblings were rather fond of him, really. This angel who dared to Question._

_He seemed, to them, to be the proper sort of leadership Heaven needed; able to keep his brethren in line in order to execute_ **_Her_ ** _Great Plan- whatever it was._

_But that future seemed to be a fading possibility._

_A bright light shone from on high._

_Speak of the angel._

_He first appeared in his true form, a beautiful collection of sparkling eyes and silver wings encircled by a molten halo. That form soon shifted to the white-garbed and angelically handsome one she was more accustomed to._

_He smiled._

_She waved._

_“Lucifer, how good it is to see you.” Said a Sister, shifting to make room on the warm dune, a rather symbolic gesture considering she wasn’t occupying any physical space being without form and all._

_Lucifer smiled wider, tucked all six of his silver-white wings into the Ether, and sat in the vacant spot between a Brother and Sister._

_“Heaven is rather busy. I wanted to see you all again.” Ever polite as always although he dispensed with any titles. She caressed his aura with her own. She felt the brush of his Grace against hers, so strong and pulsing with golden fire, it felt nice._

_“It is our pleasure, Lucifer.” Said a Brother._

_“What do you wish to discuss?” Asked another._

_Lucifer rarely came to them if he did not want to talk._

_The Archangel shifted slightly, grains of sand turning to glass in the presence of his pulsing Grace. He turned to one of the elder Brothers._

_“I come seeking the future.”_

_The mood shifted in an instant or perhaps an eternity. The sands reacted to the collective unease of the Siblings, their Will causing the ‘ocean’ to shift restlessly._

_The Brother shook his head, he had manifested a body in his distress, seeking the comfort of feeling the sand beneath him physically rather than metaphysically, “You know I cannot do that, Lucifer.” He said, sounding truly regretful._

_Lucifer’s beautiful face contorted in a frown, “I do not understand, I only wish to protect my siblings and my friends, I have no wish to hurt anyone.”_

_Her Brother sighed, “The future of your…” He searched for a word, “Rebellion is uncertain. I cannot see clearly.”_

_The others shifted nervously, that had been a topic they had studiously avoided._

_It was desperately unsettling._

_Their Brother knew the future, had always known, but now…_

_Lucifer misinterpreted the nervousness, “But you know something?” His dark eyes stared into the soft ivory of her Brother’s, “Please, tell me.”_

_No._

_No, they couldn’t._

_Not that._

_To her disbelief her Brother sighed, softly, sounding so utterly resigned._

_“All I can tell you,” He said, his voice grave and carrying the weight of his very being, older than the Universe and God_ **_Herself_ ** _, “Is to beware of falling stars.”_

_The group collectively sighed in relief, as much as they could sigh at any rate._

_No prophecy, just a simple warning._

_That should be fine._

_Lucifer furrowed his pale brow. “Raphael made the stars, he hung them. Does that mean their hangings will fail?”_

_Her Brother shook his head, “I can say nothing more, please do not ask that of me.” If Lucifer asked, she wasn’t sure her Brother could refuse him. Their love for him burned brightly, and Lucifer knew that all too well._

_To her surprise, however, Lucifer considered her Brother’s words for a long time before rising to his feet._

_“Thank you. Truly. I will take your warning as best I can.”_

_The gathering nodded their assent and watched the Archangel fly into the sparkling velvet night. Perhaps in solidarity with their anxious Brother, they all manifested bodies and sat or knelt in the warm sand, enjoying the physical sensation._

_An eternity passed._

_The beginnings of War stirred far above them, the taste of death scenting the air, she sighed, her chest aching as she felt the conflict far above her._

_It had been inevitable, unavoidable. Joining the conflict would only escalate it further. There was nothing she could do_

_No matter how much it hurt to stay away._

_“What will become of him?” Asked a Sister, the maelstrom in the heavens fading even as her wings continued to burn a brilliant scarlet, reacting to the wrath and violence far above._

_“_ **_She_ ** _will only get angrier if he continues on this path.” Said a Brother, gravely._

_“Do you think they’ll be destroyed?” Asked the Youngest._

_The Eldest looked pensive, “I hope not.”_

_The Brother with the ivory eyes sighed a long heavy sigh, “Perhaps I should not have even warned him. The future is so foggy it was all I could think to do.”_

_A Sister caressed his aura as she gently held his hand, reassurance flowing from her Grace, “It was all you could do, Brother, perhaps your warning will clear your Vision.”_

_Another discussion began as they waited._

_She turned away from her Siblings, thinking back to Before this time._

_Not The Beginning, just Before._

_She had visited Eden in her endless curiosity; its walls were nearly complete, the garden yet to be sown. Of course, none but she and her Siblings knew that was what_ **_She_ ** _planned, not even those angels conscripted into creating the flowers themselves, and they were all excited to see these ‘plants’. She was particularly looking forward to seeing the red, white, and pink carnations; though she wasn’t at all sure why._

_She had once asked Lucifer if he could come up with a name for some of the plants (after a rather lengthy explanation into what a plant was to be) and he had settled on lobelia._

_Her Brother had assured her the flower would soon exist and she had planned on gifting a few to the Archangel, once it had propagated a bit of course._

_To her surprise the garden-to-be had residents already._ **_She’d_ ** _had more children. Four Guardians for the four cardinal gates of Eden._

_Beautiful and sweet angels, so unlike Lucifer or Gabriel and yet so, so similar._

_One in particular had caught her eye._

_The Guardian of the Eastern Gate._

_A mere Principality._

_An angel so full of love she had nearly been thrown off her guard._

_It had radiated in waves and waves of roiling gold. All angels loved but this one…_

_This one was different._

_This one was a surprise._

_This one felt_ **_right_ ** _._

_She should know. She was Love itself._

_Love had had a very long discussion with the Principality as Eden formed around them. He had introduced himself as Aziraphale, her introduction wasn’t needed._

_They may have talked for years or no longer than a week, time being rather difficult to measure in immortal terms, and they had discussed everything under the sun-that-was-to-be._

_This angel was curious but didn’t Question, so innocent in his youth. She had felt her own love swell in his presence. He was going to be great. Although she wasn’t Wisdom so she couldn’t sense anything concrete (another distant invention according to her Brother) other than that inevitable greatness._

_And love._

_His future was nearly swimming in pure and golden_ **_love_ ** _._

_He gave her hope, and she hoped the ring she gave him was a suitable gift in return._

_Back on the sands in the present, she thought that maybe she should visit Aziraphale again. Take her mind off the worryingly grey and foggy future and begin to patch the wounds the War had left behind. Heal the hurt, reconnect the sundered, comfort the bereaved._

_Her Siblings still argued. Her Brother, Wisdom, still questioned his decision. She wished for the time before The Beginning, before_ **_Her_ ** _. That time had been simpler; or at least that’s how she remembered it. It had hurt less but it had also been emptier- none of this had existed Then._

_A small flash in the heavens caught her attention. The group fell silent as they turned as one to face the once velvety black sky flecked with silver, now embroiled in smothering dark clouds. This wasn’t rain- that had yet to be invented._

_Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong._

_A sharp agonising pain assaulted her very soul, a sharp cut against her Grace. If she were human, she would have clutched at her breast as she gasped for air- the pain was blinding._

_The darkness above was impenetrable, unforgiving,_ **_new_ ** _._

_And not in a good way._

_Among the inky clouds she made out a tumbling figure, engulfed in flame, hurtling towards the dunes. It was Grace she saw burning around the angel (what other being could it be?) and that Grace was familiar. It had brushed against her own more times than she could remember, flaring with golden fire. His halo burning around him._

_Agony such as this was new._

_The sky fell silent when the dunes swallowed the burning angel._

_Seconds passed._

_Or maybe centuries._

_And Love watched, along with her Siblings, as the stars Fell from Heaven._

***

Aziraphale, Principality and former Guardian of the Eastern Gate, woke up gasping for air he didn’t need. Panic made his heart flutter and he had to take a minute to try to calm himself down. He couldn’t remember falling asleep in the antique armchair and said sleep had left him unbearably disorientated; so much so that he had to grip the armrests of the chair as tight as he could1 just to reassure himself that it was there.

It took less than five minutes for the heart he didn’t need to stop racing and for his fingers to uncurl from the bruised upholstery. Aziraphale then spent the next ten minutes trying to convince himself that he had been dreaming and dreaming only.

But _oh,_ how his body ached.

He wasn’t even sure what he had dreamt. The longer he stayed awake the harder it was to recall the dream’s events. He was fairly sure it had taken place in a desert. One that eerily reminded him of the flat dunes spread before Eden.

He was also sure that whoever’s thoughts he had intruded upon had been neither angel nor demon, but when he stood, he was no longer so certain. Had it even been from someone else’s perspective? How preposterous was that.

His confused musings with his increasingly fuzzy memory were interrupted, however, by a very familiar voice accompanied by the equally familiar slam of his front door.

“Oi, angel!” Came the voice of a much beloved demon. 

Crowley, Aziraphale could have wept tears of relief2 at the arrival of something familiar and not at all fuzzy and vague. Crowley was most definitely not fuzzy and not in the least bit vague.

And he was currently swinging a very tempting looking brown paper bag in one hand that smelled deliciously like crêpes. 

Crowley sauntered into the backroom like he owned the place and said place wasn’t the territory of his hereditary enemy. Not that they had been enemies for quite some time; both unofficially and officially. The demon was grinning like a madman.

“Good news, angel!” He said, brandishing the paper packaging, “I brought breakfast and got us tickets for the theatre. I thought Hamlet would be, waddaya call it? A nostalgic throwback.” Aziraphale could just glimpse the gold of Crowley’s serpentine eyes behind the dark sunglasses, he smiled in return.

“That sounds hea- lovely. That sounds lovely, my dear.” He said, meaning every syllable. The dream quickly forgotten.

Crowley’s return smile lit up his pale face like a star. The demon graciously did not tease Aziraphale’s near descriptive slip-up and instead swayed closer and pressed a quick chaste kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek. Two months ago, this would have had Aziraphale hyperventilating and out of his mind with worry over how such an affectionate gesture could be interpreted by their respective Sides. Now, however, Armaggedidn’t was a little more than a month over with as were the Trials.

Being cut off from the two factions at perpetual war had been liberating in every sense of the word. Not least of which in their relationship with small gestures of affection simply pouring from Crowley like a faulty hose. It was endearing, it was adorable, it was simply so _lovely_. Like that whirlwind tour of London’s restaurants two weeks ago where Crowley had promptly lost his mind and spent three days taking Aziraphale out to sample exotic foods without once tasting any himself.

They were, however, still much too awkward to do anything more than a little occasional hand holding and maybe, _just_ maybe, a small peck on the lips.

Or at least it was awkward for Aziraphale, still culturally stuck in the 1800s and mentally recovering from Heaven’s doctrine, whilst Crowley3 seemed entirely in his element; which had lead Aziraphale to privately suspect the serpent had once been slated for incubus duty before making his escape to the Garden. 

But Crowley was going slow, almost painfully so, and knowing the demon did it just for Aziraphale’s own comfort was almost as unbearably lovely.

Such was Aziraphale’s enrapturement that he almost didn’t squeak in mute terror as Crowley drove the Bentley at its usual 90 miles an hour down the packed streets of London.

Almost.

* * *

_ 1 _ _Much to the chair’s and future Aziraphale’s distress._

 _ 2 _ _But he didn’t, he did have standards._

 _ 3 _ _That adaptable bastard._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always kudos and comments are very welcome and much appreciated :)


	2. A Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale begins to suspect something is—as the kid's say—'up'; Crowley makes his opinions on absinthe clear; and their ex-bosses have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me!  
> I'm keeping to my schedule!
> 
> Mild warning for aftermath of angels Falling. It's not pretty.

“My dear, that was simply marvellous!” Aziraphale announced as he exited the Bentley, taking great care when he shut the car door behind him. Crowley chuckled.

“How many times have you seen it now?” He asked, automatically holding the bookshop’s door open and waving Aziraphale through.

The angel rolled his eyes, “I happen to love Hamlet, I rather think my repeated attendance owes itself to the masterful story and wonderous characters.”

Crowley snorted, “Yeah but does that justify seeing it a thousand times?”

“Nine hundred and eighty-six,” Aziraphale corrected automatically.

Crowley laughed, such a nice sound. “You make my point for me. I mean, come on, you must’ve memorised the lines by now.” Crowley was suddenly holding a bottle of Ruinart champagne and poured it into two fluted glasses that Aziraphale had expected into existence.

“Nonsense, my dear,” Aziraphale took a long draught of the sweet ambrosia, “I’ve memorised the  _ feelings _ of the audience and the actors.”

Crowley shook his red-haired head. “Of course, angel. I should’ve guessed.”

The next three hours found the shop steadily filling up with more and more bottles of alcohol. At some point they had diverged from simple wine to scotch, then to vodka 1 , and now they had somehow migrated to small sips of absinthe. Or, to be more accurate, Crowley was sipping absinthe and Aziraphale was watching.

Crowley was also giggling hysterically.

“Honessst angel, honessst. Ev’ry word sss’true.” Crowley slurred, matters not helped by the manifestation of his forked tongue that had arrived helpfully about six bottles ago when a wine glass had been stubbornly refusing to relinquish the last of its dregs.

Aziraphale snorted into his own glass, it helpfully filled up with a deep red vintage from Italy.

“So…” He began slowly, rolling the syllables around on his tongue carefully, “You’re telling me… you’re telling me that the miracle you did to help Hamlet involved a goat, sixteen street ‘urchins’ as you say, and three hundred leather shoes?”

Crowley nodded, shaking with silent drunken laughter.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and asked the age-old question. “ _ Why? _ ”

Crowley grinned lopsidedly and sat up, miraculously not upsetting the glass of absinthe clutched unsteadily in his hand. “Y’sssee it all ssstarted with that orange ssssseller of Shhhakessspeare’sss…”

***

_ Love was dying. _

_ She had to be. _

**_She_ ** _ had killed her. _

_ Her very soul was ripping itself asunder. The utter agony of the burning angels dug into her core, tore at her Grace. Their despair constricted her heart until it threatened to burst. _

_ Dimly, Love felt the soft, comforting arms of her Sister around her. _

_ Was she kneeling? She must be kneeling. _

_ The youngest Sibling—Hope—was holding her tight, repeating her name. _

_ Love guessed she looked terrible, it certainly felt that way inside. Something was breaking within her being, something vital. _

_ She had to help. _

_ She  _ **_had_ ** _ to. _

_ Wisdom was calling out her name; he looked terrible too. _

_ Love pulled herself free from Hope—spread wide her wings and dove for Hell, the voices of her Siblings following her down into the depths of the Pit. _

_ It was awful in every sense of the word. _

_ Dark, dank, and hot; much too hot. She felt her skin recoil from the inherent evil oozing from the ancient walls, but pushed through it. _

_ It was unimportant. _

_ The children needed help. _

_ The sulphur pits were laid bare before her and if she thought she had suffered agony before it was nothing compared to the anguish she felt now. The first angel clawed out from the pits, shrieking, and she hurried over, gathering them up in her arms. _

_ Their beautiful wings were burnt, and gorgeous scarlet hair was choked with ash. When they were able to open their eyes, Love stared into slitted pupils floating in a sea of gold. She almost cried out, pain doubling upon recognising the Archangel she cradled: her dear Raphael. _

_ Despite everything, she smiled. _

_ “Shh, it's alright. I’ll make it better.” She unfurled her Grace—thinking to heal him—but quickly contained it once more when the poor child shrieked louder in the presence of such ancient divinity. Love was quick to sooth him, aiming for more mundane means of comfort; she combed her shaking fingers through his hair, dislodging the clumps of ash and smoothing down the feathers of his shaking wings. Oh, his wings! _

_ Only a single pair was left—the largest set between his shoulder blades—the other two had been ripped away. _

_ She hid her despair as best she could, tried instead to project an aura of calm, of healing. Gradually the little angel stopped shrieking. It helped her own shaking a little. _

_ More angels were crawling from the pits, moaning in agony, some crying. She laid the now sleeping angel down on the ground, tucking his coal coloured wings carefully beneath him to act as a pillow. She moved onto the next angel, then the next, and the next. Soothing, shushing, cradling them. Until they slept and were safe from pain. For now, at least. _

_ Love might have been down there for years. _

_ It didn’t matter. _

_ It was killing her, she knew. _

_ This place was destroying her. _

_ She didn’t care. _

_ She held angel after angel in her arms; a mockery of a mother. Showering them all with affection, projecting love, whispering calming words as they struggled with this new, wretched fire burning beneath their skin. _

_ They were no longer objects of divine beauty, their bodies had been twisted—wings burned or ripped off. It broke her inside. But when the angels Love cradled looked upon her—with their beautiful eyes of cobalt blue, flame red, and shining gold—and asked in a tremulous voice, ‘Am I ugly now?’, she would always resolutely shake her head and smile beatifically, placing small kisses to their ash stained foreheads, and whispering—always whispering—‘Never. You could never look ugly to me.’ _

_ She wasn’t entirely sure if they heard her, but her whispered platitudes seemed to calm them. Perhaps they thought all of this was some delirious dream, that they would wake in Heaven once more, their siblings and friends there to comfort them, to offer healing. _

_ Perhaps they thought she was  _ **_Her_ ** _. Offering forgiveness. _

_ Love dearly hoped not. _

_ This was painful enough as it was, she’d rather not give false hope. _

_ Her white dress was stained with the filth of Hell; marred with the grey of ash, the sticky black of tar, the yellow of sulphur, and the deep red black of blood. Her feet and hands were similarly stained. Once light skin was now a sickly grey and her delicate hands were stained with the blood of thousands of Fallen children.  _

_ She tried not to think on it. _

_ And ventured further into Hell. _

***

Aziraphale woke with a start. Grogginess hit him full in the face half a second later and he groaned. Then the hangover joined in and that groan lengthened considerably as he swiped feebly at his eyes.

Hell, he had dreamt of Hell.

As with the first dream it was suddenly very difficult to remember what had happened 2 but he was sure it had been Hell. One does not forget the stench of the sulphur pits.

Aziraphale briefly wondered if the demons grew used to the smell or if they had invented some sort of nasal blocking strategy. He’d nearly been sick when he had ventured down in Crowley’s body during the Trials. Hastur had luckily been preoccupied with the salacious idea of Crowley melting in a tub full of holy water and had not noticed Aziraphale dry heaving into his elbow.

A rivalling groan came from Aziraphale’s couch. Crowley lay there, nestled among the bottles of the previous night, clutching his head like it was threatening to burst.

“You let me drink absssinthe…” He muttered, “That shit’ssss bad…”

Aziraphale grunted by way of apology.

Crowley sat up and the resulting shatter as bottles flew every which way had them both violently cringing.

“Right… shouldn’t’ve done that.”

Aziraphale groaned aloud again, rubbing his temples in a seemingly futile attempt to ease the throbbing migraine pushing behind his eyes, much like many humans did. Being a celestial being however, he had one up on those unfortunate souls. The pressure eased at a gentle pace until the migraine had faded completely. He then resolutely did  _ not _ think of the dream.

Crowley had done the same and was busy rooting around for his shoes which, for some unfathomable reason, were currently in the Philosophy section under an office chair neither of them remembered being there before.

Apparently, absinthe did rather bizarre things to Crowley. Aziraphale made a note to miracle away any bottles the demon produced in future, for the safety of Soho.

Shoes found and bottles cleared away, Aziraphale found himself being driven to the Ritz once again. Crowley singing along, badly, to Queen. Currently both demon and car were belting out:

_ I was born to love you _

_ With every single beat of my heart _

_ Yes, I was born to take care of you _

_ Every single day... _

Perhaps Crowley was missing the obvious message, although the demon’s frequent side-glances possibly meant he knew full well.

_ I was born to love you _

_ With every single beat of my heart _

_ Yes, I was born to take care of you _

_ Every single day of my life _

_ You are the one for me _

_ I am the man for you _

_ You were made for me _

_ You're my ecstasy _

_ If I was given every opportunity _

_ I'd kill for your love _

Crowley was definitely smirking at him. Aziraphale stared resolutely out of the passenger window, trying to ignore both the growing flush across his cheeks and the reflection of an increasingly smug Crowley on the glass.

_ So take a chance with me _

_ Let me romance with you _

_ I'm caught in a dream _

_ And my dream's come true _

_ It's so hard to believe _

_ This is happening to me _

_ An amazing feeling _

_ Comin' through _

Aziraphale was certain the flush across his cheeks was very noticeable and when the Bentley pulled up to the Ritz, he nearly threw himself into the street to settle his fluttering heart. Crowley, ever considerate despite his vehement denial of his own generosity, didn’t mention it.

Miraculously there happened to be a reservation at the Ritz for their regular table and lunch passed superbly well. Aziraphale nattered on about this or that book and a particularly exciting acquisition he had made just the other day whilst Crowley watched him like he always had.

And if their hands touched every so often, neither of them said anything.

***

In a place neither of Heaven nor of Hell and certainly not on Earth, two entities met.

One had violet eyes, greyish-black hair, and his back was ramrod straight, shifting his elegantly dressed body slightly in the sands of the Ether. This was Gabriel: an Archangel who had recently failed in his duty to kill the Traitor—Aziraphale—for halting Armageddon.

The other was much shorter and had a rather painful lesion stretching across their pale face, they also had a large and evil-looking black fly clinging to their black-haired head. This was Beelzebub: a Prince of Hell who had also recently failed in their duty to destroy the Traitor—Crowley—for halting Armageddon and the, now rather redundant, murder of a Duke of Hell known as Ligur. Redundant since Ligur had been resurrected when the former Antichrist had reset the world, much to everyone’s surprise 3 .

“Beelzebub.” Gabriel said, by way of greeting. Granting them a small bow. Beelzebub rolled their eyes.

“Gabriel.” They replied, not bothering with a bow. Gabriel brushed it off.

Always the smarmy git, they thought.

“We assume the… current events have reached your office?” Asked the Archangel.

Beelzebub resisted the urge to roll their eyes again, “Obviouzzzly, we wouldn’t be here otherwizzze.”

Gabriel nodded sagely, “Of course, strictly business.”

“Of courzze.”

The two beings eyed each other.

Gabriel swallowed, “Yes business, well,” He reached into his suit jacket and withdrew a folder, Beelzebub did the same.

Gabriel handed the pale lavender folder smelling of sweet lilac and gooseberries 4 to his infernal counterpart and received a yellowing folder smelling faintly of sulphur and stained a worrying red in the bottom-left corner.

Beelzebub enjoyed his expression of utter disgust too much to inform the Archangel it was wine; Earth offered some good things after all, Gabriel was lucky the folder didn’t have pastry grease on it; Beelzebub may have got slightly distracted whilst they had waited for Gabriel’s signal for a meeting but any opportunity for sugar was too good to pass up.

Swallowing the sudden incursion of saliva at the thought of sugar; they perused the sickly smelling lavender folder as Gabriel inspected theirs.

It was eerily reminiscent of their own problems. Six pictures. Six angels. All dead with nary a mark on them. They buzzed in irritation.

“I can azzzzure you thizzz izz none of our doing.” They were sure of it; no demon would kill so many angels and not brag about it, why waste such an opportunity?

Gabriel nodded, “Neither is this,” He said, brandishing a similar set of six pictures, “I assure you.”

The two regarded one another with more than a little suspicion but their temporary truce after Armageddon had laid the fragile foundations of trust. Besides, Beelzebub thought, Gabriel was stupid, they could always destroy him later.

“Could it be them? The Traitors?” Gabriel pondered, looking dubious.

“Perhapzzzz,” Buzzed Beelzebub, “But I doubt it. Neither of them are fighterzzz. Crowley izz an abject coward, and that angel of yourzzz izz no better.” Gabriel flinched at the mere mention of Aziraphale—it must still be a sore spot. They filed that away for future interactions, right between ‘he hates sushi’ and ‘he detests country music’.

“Something else then.”

“Yezzz.”

The two beings were silent for a good long while.

“Well.”

“Indeed”

“Zzzee you later? Once you find something of courzzze.”

“Of course.”

They vanished in a puff of lilac and sulphuric smoke.

* * *

_ 1 _ _ Normally Aziraphale detested the stuff but he was so drunk he couldn’t even taste it. _

_ 2 _ _ His body, unfortunately, did not have such a memory lapse and was aching like nobody’s business, except Crowley’s. _

_ 3 _ _ Ligur was currently enjoying a few weeks off with Hastur who had been uncharacteristically happy at the return of the (slightly soggy) Duke of Hell. Beelzebub didn’t ask. _

_ 4 _ _ He must remind the secretary angels to refrain from human videogames, honestly, such nonsense in those things. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a small reference in this chapter and I wonder who can spot it :)
> 
> As always kudos and comments are very welcome and much appreciated.


	3. Suspicions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gets suspicious because his angel is terrible at acting. Aziraphale upsets his books.

_ She was tiring. _

_ It had been difficult to notice at first, of course, the cries of the children distracted her and she herself was in too much pain to realise much beyond where the next sobbing voice came from. _

_ But she noticed now. _

_ The small angel she cradled was slowly slipping to sleep as she stroked their dark hair. This one had no wings so as she laid them down, she used a small bit of her Grace to mould the hellish rock into a small dip to support their petite weight. No objects of comfort survived here so she made do with creating what little comfort she could. _

_ When she straightened her vision wobbled and she had to blink several times to clear it. _

_ That wasn’t good. _

_ That was, in fact, very bad. _

_ This pit was empty, the sulphur hid no more screaming bodies, its angels were gently sleeping on the shore; pillowed on blackened wings or tucked into smooth crevices.  _

_ Onto the next. _

_ How long had she been doing this? _

_ It must have been years. _

_ She had forgotten how many boiling pits she had visited, how many of the Fallen she had pulled from their turbulent surfaces. She had once had to dive in herself to retrieve one whose strength had failed her. _

_ The pain had been horrid. A deep burning ache that had lasted much too long after she had swum to shore, dragging the whimpering angel behind her. Her dress was thoroughly ruined, much like the once white robes of the angels who slept around her. The blood staining her hands now reached up her forearms and the soot and ash had soiled her hair and face. _

_ She must, she mused bitterly, look like she had Fallen herself. _

_ Her fatigue was getting so great that it was becoming difficult to walk, she should rest, she knew. _

_ She didn’t. _

_ Couldn’t. _

_ The angels couldn’t rest without her, why should she be selfish? _

_ Another year passed, she had fallen to her knees an hour ago, that was most definitely a warning. _

_ But there were still so many in agony. _

_ Briefly she wondered if her Siblings missed her. _

_ Then she heard a splash from a nearby pool and the start of the now-familiar shrieking. Her family could wait. _

***

This, Aziraphale mused, was getting old fast. The ache in his bones agreed.

Perhaps it was the armchair. Although he had never heard of furniture being able to grant frighteningly realistic dreams about Hell. 

After lunch at the Ritz he and Crowley had wandered the park for a brief spell, talking about nothing, then Crowley had driven him home and bid him goodnight with another chaste kiss to his cheek, a kiss that set off fireworks in the pit of the angel’s stomach. 

Aziraphale had then proceeded to lose himself in his signed copy of  _ The Picture of Dorian Gray _ , trying desperately to not think of the kiss, as the city glowed to life around him.

Somewhere in chapter three he had fallen asleep yet again and this latest dream went the way of the others with the details immediately fogging over leaving Aziraphale both in incredible pain and with the distinct taste of sulphur in his mouth.

This wasn’t chance, he was sure.

Unfortunately, he was at a complete loss as to how to fix it.

So Aziraphale turned to the only medium he knew that could contain answers, his books. 

If Adam had been there, he would have forced Aziraphale onto Anathema’s laptop and then explained ‘Wikipedia’ to the thoroughly confused angel. Fortunately, the not-so-Antichrist was currently trapped in school in Tadfield, so such a torturous explanation was not forthcoming. This was fortunate for Adam as well as Aziraphale, as technology and Aziraphale did not mix well; a fact Crowley had learned roughly two decades earlier after wasting far too much time trying to explain that CDs were replacing vinyl to which Aziraphale had asked what on earth  _ vinyl _ was and if it was in any way related to his gramophone. Crowley had never bothered trying to explain anything after that and all internet endeavours thereafter, both good and bad, had been relegated to the demon’s expertise.

Although the creation of Facebook and Instagram may have been indications that such free reign was a dreadful mistake.

Currently Aziraphale was halfway through his ‘Angelology and Demonology’ section, engrossed in a particularly vivid description of a succubus’ temptation of Henry the Eighth in his late teens, when a loud bang announced Crowley’s entrance into the shop. The shop was empty of customers which was both because of the polite ‘Closed’ sign on the door and also because the only customer that had visited today had attempted to shoplift one of the signed books of prophecy that had somehow migrated to the outer shelves away from the safety of Aziraphale’s desk.

Safe to say Aziraphale may have reacted rather  _ strongly _ and the customer had screamed bloody murder whilst fairly flying out of the shop- yelling something about eldritch horrors dressed as English professors. 

After that it had been a perfectly lovely and quiet day.

Crowley rounded the corner of the aisle and took in the sight of Aziraphale, almost buried in rare and ancient books, with raised eyebrows. The placid glass of the demon’s sunglasses kept his eyes from betraying anything but Aziraphale knew surprise when he saw it.

“Angel, I’ve been calling you for the past hour.” Oh, that had been what that infernal ringing was. How had he missed that?

“Oh, I’m so sorry dear. I’ve just been… well… a little preoccupied.” Aziraphale gestured a tad helplessly to his incidental nest. Crowley’s eyebrows somehow managed to inch higher.

“What’s eating at you, angel?” He asked. 

Aziraphale placed a bookmark in the text he was currently reading and then set about clearing away his mess; apologising to the books who were well aware of how expensive and rare they were and who knew they deserved better than being piled on top of one another. He was almost finished when he realised Crowley was still waiting for an answer.

“Oh, nothing much dear. Just a few… facts I needed to set straight.” Aziraphale smiled in a way he hoped was convincing. Considering Crowley’s palpable disbelief, he guessed that it was rather pitiable.

“Angel, since when do you forget anything you read?” Crowley moved closer, Aziraphale felt the instinctive urge to step back, he ignored it. He wasn’t able, however, to help a small flinch when Crowley removed his glasses.

Crowley frowned outright.

“Something’s bothering you, angel. Tell me.” Aziraphale winced. Crowley was hardly going to react well to the news of Aziraphale’s sudden bout of blackouts and his dreams of Hell. In fact, Aziraphale was quite certain such news would go over terribly.

Crowley was, for want of a better word, impulsive. 

Ridiculously so.

Aziraphale had had over 6000 years to study his demonic counterpart and bad news never resulted in anything rational. When Armageddon threatened to come to fruition Crowley had almost run to Alpha Centauri.

Aziraphale was rather fond of Earth and was none too keen on being dragged halfway across the galaxy by a panicking demon  _ thankyouverymuch _ .

In an effort that threatened to make him blackout once more, Aziraphale forced himself to brighten up both physically and spiritually. He was rewarded for his effort when Crowley relaxed ever so slightly.

“Honestly, dear, I was simply focusing a mite too hard on a wayward thought. Nothing large. You know how I get.” He smiled self-deprecatingly, “I’m not entirely sure what thought I had been pursuing, to be honest, it all sort of got…”

“Lost underneath a pile of half-truths written by monks who wouldn’t recognise a true demon if Beelzebub themselves walked up to them naked playing a harp?” Crowley supplied, a familiar smirk curving his lips.

Aziraphale nodded, “Unfortunately so, my dear. Would you like some tea?” 

Crowley considered it, mainly to give the illusion that he might possibly say  _ No _ which he never had and never would, and nodded, “Sure, angel. Then the park?”

Aziraphale nodded as he bustled over to the backroom and the small kitchen beyond that, “We’ll have to remember to bring the ducks some more of those seeds, I felt simply awful leaving them wanting. I mean my dear,” He scooped up his angel-wing mug and fetched a matching black-winged mug from the shelf 1 , “We visit almost as often as those secret agents, we’re expected to feed them.”

Crowley hummed distractedly from the back room.

Aziraphale picked up the kettle—one of the few concessions to modern technology in his life—and fetched two teabags from a tartan tub on the counter. Crowley was eternally confused by his insistence that tea tasted better when freshly made the  _ human way _ and not miracled into being. Aziraphale found it soothing in a classically British fashion, making tea whilst humming a tune he belatedly realised was ‘ _ Bohemian Rhapsody _ ’.

The kettle whistled.

***

_ How long had she lain here? _

_ It must have been a while, an hour at the least. _

_ There were no more cries of pain echoing in her ears unless her own counted (it did not). All the children were asleep, carried into painless dreams where they still flew among the stars under  _ **_Her_ ** _ proud gaze. She hoped they were happy there. _

_ Her own pain had, by now, been overtaken by a cold numbness. Her Grace flickered candle-weak deep within her being and she barely had the strength to push up from the unforgiving rock that cut her palms and bit into her feet, but she did. _

_ The silence was lying. _

_ There remained one soul still writhing in agony just up ahead. A wave of guilt crashed over her as she pushed herself upwards onto unsteady feet. No rest for her yet. _

_ Hell swayed around her, eerily silent without the shrieking echoes and agonised moans. _

_ She was glad of the quiet; even if it were a false omen. _

_ This last angel had a sulphur pit all his own. It was the deepest one she had encountered, and it boiled as if fuelled with pure malice; great bubbles of inky black forced their way to the molten surface and broke, releasing acrid fumes into the already heavy and choking air. The angel had just crawled from the pit, sulphur still dripped from the remains of his six wings. _

_ This one, unlike the rest, made not a sound. _

_ But his Grace, by the heavens, his Grace  _ **_shrieked_ ** _ its agony. It pulsed anguish and something else, something infinitely worse. _

_ It was dark, black as pitch, deep as the ocean that would one day cover the Earth. _

_ Malevolence rolled off this angel in thick, oily waves. Her own weak Grace was very nearly smothered, the spark of her being almost wiped from existence by the sheer  _ **_hatred_ ** _ emanating from this final Fallen child. This last stop in her journey before she could think of rest, of recuperation, and how best to care for these children so horribly broken and beaten when they awoke into such an unforgiving nightmare. _

_ All six wings creaked and groaned as he moved them experimentally, his skin split in his hands and arms, bleeding thick black ichor. The angel looked up from his almost kneeling position. _

_ Love took a step back, bloodied hands rising in half-hearted defence, her own wings trailing the burning ground, heavy with cooling sulphur and dusted with ash. _

_ “I didn’t know  _ **_She_ ** _ hated you, too.” Said- _

***

“ **_Lucifer_ ** !”

Crowley leapt back in surprise as Aziraphale shot upright. 

Pure unadulterated panic charged through the angel’s veins, the King of Hell’s face still swam in front of his eyes; not red and crowned with horns, ready for battle, but pale, beautiful even. It was his eyes, those terribly empty, infernal eyes, they had burned into Aziraphale like a brand of hellfire.

Aziraphale hunched his shoulders and fought back the urge to sob.

“Angel? Angel! What happened?” Belatedly, Aziraphale realised Crowley was kneeling in front of him, gripping Aziraphale’s pale hands in his own.

“I-I…” He couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. Crowley pulled him to his chest and Aziraphale completely broke down, bawling into the demon’s leather jacket that smelled comfortingly of smoke and sandalwood.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how long they sat there but it didn’t take long for the tears to dry up and for him to start hiccoughing as Crowley gently rubbed his back. Eventually, Aziraphale stopped shaking altogether and pulled away from Crowley, rubbing away the tear tracks staining his face.

“Angel…” Crowley sounded softer than Aziraphale had ever heard him before, it threatened to send him crying again. 

He was saved from this unfortunate relapse by Crowley kissing him very gently on the lips. 

The world briefly whited out.

When Aziraphale came to he hadn’t fainted again, much to his relief, neither was he on the floor which was even better. Instead Crowley was looking at him with those gorgeous golden eyes of his, concern palpable in the air between them.

“Come on, angel. You need sleep.” Aziraphale suddenly found himself in Crowley’s arms as Crowley moved for the stairs leading to the small apartment above.

“D-Dear,” He coughed, “Dear, I don’t sleep.”

Crowley scoffed, “Angel, if you don’t sleep right now, I think you might discorporate. You look fucking terrible.”

Aziraphale managed a weak laugh, “Language, Crowley.”

* * *

_ 1 _ _ Another of Adam’s additions to the bookshop, he was such a nice boy. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is my personal headcannon that Crowley was the one behind the internet and, like almost all of his schemes, it has got WAY out of hand.
> 
> As always kudos and comments are very welcome and much appreciated :)


	4. Inconvenient Timing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale finally catches a break; Crowley definitely doesn't; and Beelzebub hatches a plan with Gabriel.

For once Aziraphale woke up without the bitter taste of sulphur on his tongue and an aching body. Instead he awoke in a  _ very _ comfy bed with a black mattress, black silk sheets, and the sound of Crowley yelling profanities at the top of his demonic lungs in a nearby room.

Despite his body feeling better than it had in days, he had the overwhelming urge to just roll over and fall asleep again. The phantom taste of sulphur, however, banished any thought of an enjoyable nap into the realm of the impossible. Aziraphale sighed into the black pillow.

His melancholy was interrupted by Crowley throwing open the bedroom door and marching briskly to the angel’s side. Aziraphale suspected the demon was projecting false nonchalance for his own benefit and that thought conversely cheered him up a great deal more than genuine concern would. He smiled at Crowley.

“How did we get to your apartment?” He asked, surprised at how steady his own voice was. He felt rather honoured at the thought that Crowley had taken him to the flat. Despite the recent… progress in their relationship 1 Aziraphale had never expected to see the infamous apartment so soon, let alone wake up in Crowley’s ridiculously soft bed. Crowley, on the other hand, looked positively delighted at Aziraphale’s presence in his bed and Aziraphale realised, rather too late, that he was wearing  _ white silk pyjamas _ of all things!

Crowley grinned devilishly as he sat down on the edge of the bed. “I may have used a miracle or two…” He waved his hand carelessly and a mug of hot cocoa was suddenly on the nightstand. “Or three. Honestly angel, that bed of yours is as hard as a fucking rock, I couldn’t leave you in it.”

Aziraphale smiled wider, pretending to be offended, and pushed himself into a sitting position. The mug was at the perfect temperature, and the taste of cocoa washed the hint of sulphur from his tongue. He sighed, contentedly.

When he looked up from the now-half-full mug of cocoa he realised Crowley was staring at him. His eyes weren’t covered by the usual glasses and Aziraphale felt almost naked under the demon’s intense scrutiny. He replaced the mug on the nightstand.

“Angel… your eyes…” Crowley murmured. 

Aziraphale cocked an eyebrow, “What? What’s wrong with my eyes?”

Crowley shook his head and miracled a hand-held mirror into existence, holding it out to Aziraphale. Perplexed and more than a little hesitant Aziraphale investigated the mirror. He looked better than he thought he would have. Same round pale face, same white curls, the tear tracks were gone he noted happily, and the same blue eyes. He lowered the mirror.

“Crowley there’s nothing wrong with my eyes.” Crowley’s response was rather simple and consisted of nearly shoving the mirror into Aziraphale’s face with a hissed “Look closssser!”

Utterly bemused, Aziraphale concentrated on his own reflection, feeling more than a little silly. Nothing had changed. His eyes were the same sky blue they had always be-

Hold on. That wasn’t right. 

Aziraphale took the mirror from Crowley’s vice-like grip and held it himself, squinting at the reflected Principality staring serenely back. His eyes  _ weren’t _ a uniform blue anymore, the colour had not altered once during the six thousand years he had been on Earth, but now that sky blue was threaded through with deeper strands of sapphire, cobalt, turquoise, and, oddest of all,  _ gold _ . This was very, very odd.

Crowley was grimacing by the time Aziraphale managed to tear himself away from his reflection. Before he could ask what was on the demon’s mind—like he didn’t already know—Crowley stood and gestured for Aziraphale to do the same. Given that Aziraphale was most assuredly not used to silk sheets 2 it took him a few minutes to disentangle himself and stand in front of Crowley who, despite fidgeting whilst he waited, couldn’t help a small smirk of amusement.

Once up, that smirk evaporated and Aziraphale was yet again witness to the rare phenomena of genuine concern creasing the demon’s face. It was decidedly both out of place and strangely endearing.

“Wingsss.” The demon hissed, maneuvering the angel into the middle of the bedroom. Aziraphale obliged and a pair of silver-white pearlescent wings unfolded out of the Ether into the room.

“Spread ‘em” Crowley ordered. Aziraphale did so and fourteen feet of wing extended the length of the bedroom; ordinarily Aziraphale would have fretted over knocking into paintings or hung mirrors but Crowley’s walls were completely bare, so he instead focused on not moving the wings too much as to avoid hitting Crowley himself.

“My dear, what is it that you’re looking for exactly?” He asked politely. Maybe he was dreaming again. This certainly didn’t feel real.

Crowley only grunted as he inspected the feathers, steadily moving behind Aziraphale, gentle fingers carding through the soft down near his back and making the angel shudder. Preening was rather intimate and Aziraphale had always done it himself despite those back feathers being frustratingly difficult to reach, but this wasn’t preening 3 . 

Aziraphale tried again to get Crowley’s attention, “My dear?”

Crowley didn’t answer until he ducked back under Aziraphale’s right wing and stood in front of him.

“Nothin’ angel, you’re fine.” Crowley smiled and, taking Aziraphale’s hands into his own, he dragged the now near-permanently confused angel with him to the bed 4 , “Now… why the absolute fuck did you yell Satan’s name after you fainted?”

Aziraphale winced. Naively he had been hoping Crowley would have forgotten that little detail and he had to blink several times to rid his vision of those empty burning eyes again.

_ It wasn’t real _ \- that was what he kept telling himself. 

He wished he was more convincing. 

Crowley was still waiting on an answer, however, and Aziraphale had a sneaking suspicion that if he lied Crowley wouldn’t let him leave- not after the fainting and the subsequent relocation. The angel furrowed his brow as he attempted to throw together an explanation that wouldn’t immediately convince Crowley he was tragically insane.

“Well, dear, you see…” _ For the past few days I’ve been finding myself blacking out for hours at a time whilst I have horrific dreams of Hell of which I can never remember the details except for the awful smell, however, yesterday—or was it earlier today?—it was different as I very clearly remembered seeing Satan’s face and afterwards I was in quite a bit of pain. Nothing to worry about. _

If he put it like that, he’d be halfway to Alpha Centauri before he could say  _ crêpes _ .

He was an angel for crying out loud. He had more tact than that.

“You see… for the past few days I… well I’ve been having some rather odd dreams and-"

***

_ The void of Space stretched out before her, endless and inviting. A single beat of her enormous wings sent her careening through the emptiness faster than the speed of light. _

_ Light was new. One of  _ **_Her_ ** _ darling angels was out making this light. His name was Raphael. _

_ She beat her wings once more and entered the beginning of this new place. This Universe. She could feel  _ **_Her_ ** _ presence all around. It welcomed her back from visiting her eldest Brother. _

_ The Abyss. _

_ Well, strictly speaking that wasn’t his name, just as hers wasn’t ‘Love’. But their names were much too powerful _ _ 5 _ _ for  _ **_Her_ ** _ children to pronounce so their names had changed. _

_ Abyss wasn’t unwelcome in  _ **_Her_ ** _ new Universe,  _ **_She_ ** _ loved him like  _ **_She_ ** _ did the others, but he preferred his own domain, the nothing, the empty, the void. It didn’t mean he never visited. _

_ He, like her other Siblings, were astounded by  _ **_Her_ ** _ creations. They pulsed with energy, with life. Wisdom was terribly excited about these things to come called ‘planets’ and the wonderous recounts of his visions filled them all with eager excitement. After all, eternity was nice, but it helped when there were new things to see and do. _

_ Maturity wasn’t exactly a ‘thing’ yet. _

_ Raphael hovered up ahead, haloed in fantastically bright light as he clutched a burgeoning new star tightly to his chest- feeding the future behemoth his Grace as it swelled, devouring divinity greedily. _

_ “Raphael! My dear, Raphael!” She called out to the Archangel who nearly dropped the star. _

_ “Lady Love, that wasn’t funny!” He yelled back struggling to regain control of the tiny violent orb. Love laughed. The look on the angel’s face was just too hilarious not to. A tiny giggle joined her laughter and she turned to greet her youngest Sister, Hope. They both looked rather odd, she thought, in these new bodies  _ **_She_ ** _ had thought up for  _ **_Her_ ** _ angels and that they had decided to adopt- it was much easier to read expressions, however, rather than sense them. _

_ “Sister you shouldn’t tease him.” Hope scolded, not an ounce of retribution in her voice. _

_ “Dearest Sister, he makes it impossible not to!” She burst out laughing again at the indignant ‘hmph’ from the Archangel who had wrangled the now sulking star and was continuing to feed it energy. _

_ Hope smiled and flew to Raphael’s side, careful not to startle him, “I apologise on my Sister’s behalf, she is entirely too childish.” _

_ Love gasped, “Childish? You wound me, Sister. I may just- what do you call it when a star explodes dear?” She asked Raphael who by now had quite forgiven her if she was reading the smile on his face correctly. _

_ “A supernova.” _

_ “Yes, I may go supernova at your unjust accusation!” With nary a twitch of her wings, she flew over to Raphael’s other side.  _

_ A new Sibling joined in. _

_ “Sister, that accusation is anything but undeserved!” Called out the voice of her older Brother, Justice. He flew in on wings the colour of copper and was closely followed by the second oldest of her Brothers, Wisdom, whose wings were the colour of parchment; not that she knew what that was but Wisdom said that was what colour they were so she accepted it. Wisdom was rather excited for the advent of something called ‘writing’, a concept so alien he had given up on trying to explain it to the rest of them. _

_ Raphael had returned to fully concentrating on forming the star and the four Siblings chose to watch in silence, eager to witness yet another Creation. With a final burst of Grace, Raphael flung the star away and they watched as it swelled larger and larger until a massive sphere of roiling flame roared serenely in the distance, casting brilliantly bright fiery light out in every direction. _

_ Raphael was surprised but no less pleased when the Siblings as one applauded the marvellous fury and the utter ferocity with which the sphere burned. Its burnished glow illuminated each of their faces a ruby red and set Raphael’s red hair aflame in a halo of burning orange. _

_ She didn’t think she had ever seen a sight so beautiful. _

_ She had of course, seen many things, everything to be precise. When you begin with nothing and then start getting things you begin to appreciate every new Creation with the wonder it deserves. But it wasn’t the star that so caught her attention, though it was doubtlessly impressive. _

_ No, what impressed her was the angel, abashedly accepting their lauded appraisals of his newest accomplishment, with his scarlet hair and bright golden eyes. Something was different about him, she could tell, she had a good feeling about his future. _

***

Aziraphale awoke, once again, in the silk laden bed.

This dream had been exactly like the others in every way except one. He felt  _ good _ , amazingly so. Rejuvenated, reinvigorated, revitalised. He tasted not sulphur but sun on his tongue, the taste of Creation, of new life. Now  _ that  _ was a feeling he had not been parley to for quite some time.

Nearly six thousand years, in fact.

He had been awake for exactly half a second before Crowley practically smothered him in a long and incredibly tight hug. Crowley, his physiology derived from a snake, had an extraordinary grip which he was utilising to quite an awesome degree. So much so that Aziraphale feared, had he been human, he would have died from asphyxia a little less than two minutes ago.

As it was, still fully celestial, he merely waited Crowley out and tried to enjoy the hug as best he could from such an odd angle. Aziraphale was released after five minutes of uncharacteristically soppy hugging and took a deep, laborious breath. He hoped Crowley hadn’t broken this corporation’s ribs, but as he breathed out, he decided they weren’t broken, merely a bit bruised. That was good.

“What the absolute  **_FUCK_ ** is going on, angel?” Crowley probably meant it as a question, but it came out more of a strangled scream. Aziraphale, his elation dying rather quickly, sighed. What had he been doing?

Oh yes, awkward chat about hellish nightmares.

“Erm.” Well this was starting well, “Those dreams I was talking about earlier? They- “

Crowley just about exploded, “ _ Earlier _ ? Angel that was last fucking  _ week _ !”

_ Oh,  _ oh dear.

Aziraphale suddenly felt very small under Crowley’s golden gaze.

“L-last week?” He managed to whimper.

Crowley threw his arms in the air, narrowly avoiding hitting Aziraphale in the face as he did so, “Yes! You woke up after you bloody well  _ fainted _ at the bookshop, and then, in the middle of you fucking explaining what’s happening you  **_fucking faint again_ ** !”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything, Crowley was going to rant no matter what he did, so he settled in for the ride.

“Have you any  **_fucking_ ** idea how worried I’ve been? I had no bloody clue what was happening, and I tried phoning Anathema, but wouldn’t you fucking know it, she’s out of the country and won’t be coming back until  _ next week _ which happens to be  _ this week _ now.” Crowley took a deep breath, “And now you wake up like it's  **_nothing_ ** ?”

The rant went on like this for several minutes, consisting less and less of actual words and instead filling up with furiously hissed curses and lots of glaring. When Crowley finished his face was almost as red as his hair. It took a few moments for Aziraphale to string together a sentence.

“D-dear, I… I’m not sure what’s causing this, but I can assure you that I’m fine. I feel better than I have in days…” He frowned, “Weeks, even. I’m sure I was just exhausted. Armageddon and the Trials weren't all that long ago, it must have just caught up with me.” He offered a weak shrug. It was the best explanation he had really. Nothing else made sense. Now that he was thinking about it, his latest dream wasn’t making a lot of sense either. How had he gone from dreaming of Hell and waking to find his body aching with barely suppressed pain to dreaming of something… something wonderful and healing and  _ beautiful _ . 

Crowley clearly didn’t buy it, “Angel your eyes have changed colour, you’ve fainted  _ at least _ twice _ — _ I don’t even want to know how many more times before that—and you’re acting weird. Something isn’t bloody right and you know it.”

Crowley wriggled off Aziraphale and slid off the bed with that effortless grace the angel so envied. When Aziraphale went to stand up himself, however, Crowley fixed him with a glare.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Crowley pressed a hand to Aziraphale’s chest and pressed him back down, “You are staying right  _ there _ until I can get Anathema’s scrawny arse here to try to sort you out."

Aziraphale spluttered, “You’re confining me to bed?”

Crowley smirked, “Yep, and you better stay in bed or else!”

“Or else what?”

Crowley paused a moment before straightening up authoritatively, Aziraphale had quite forgotten Crowley had been Nanny Ashtoreth and was suddenly very well aware of just why Warlock had always done as he had been told by her, “You _ don’t  _ want to find that out, angel.”

Aziraphale found himself almost unwittingly sinking back down onto the cushions under Crowley’s triumphant gaze.

“Now get some rest, I’m off to find an American witch and her terrible boyfriend.” He left the bedroom but poked his head back in a moment later. 

“And don’t you dare think about miracling up a book here to keep yourself awake. You aren’t well enough for miracles.”

“Crowley I’m not sick, you don’t- “

“This is  _ my  _ house, angel. I bloody well get to tell you what to do. Now get some sleep.” The door clicked shut behind the demon and Aziraphale sighed. The bedroom lights turned off of their own accord and he rolled over under the silk covers.

He knew a lost arguement when he saw one and any further haggling would most likely only result in either hurt feelings or actual physical restraints until Crowley was reassured that the Principality wasn't going to spontaneously combust or something. No, for now the best course of action was to do nothing and not worry the already harried and heart-warmingly anxious demon any further. Helpfully, Aziraphale already found himself drifting off to sleep again.  


***

The two entities met once again in what had become their usual meeting place. The meetings were now daily, and Beelzebub was finding it harder and harder to be irritated.

In fact, it was a relief to talk with someone who  _ didn’t  _ cower in terror every time they buzzed in annoyance or snapped a harsh word. That didn’t mean they had stopped hating Gabriel. Definitely not. They hated the Archangels’ stupid, pompous guts and he hated theirs but that didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy each other’s company.

And it wasn’t like they were meeting socially, anyway.

“How many dead?” Gabriel asked. They were sitting in the sand and were a comfortable two feet from each other, close enough for Gabriel’s lavender scent to tickle their nose. Beelzebub sighed.

“Zzzzixteen now. All killed the zzzame way.”

Gabriel hummed a tad sympathetically. 

“Same here, sixteen dead, all killed in an identical manner.”

Beelzebub growled, “Itzzz a zzzerial killer of zzome zzzort.”

Gabriel nodded, narrowing his violet eyes, “The evidence is certainly damning.”

The two glanced at one another.

“Zzzomething izzz going to happen, Gabriel, I can feel it.” They buzzed. The feeling of impending change had been growing stronger since the failed Armageddon and it was starting to worry them. Everything after the failed Apocalypse was entirely new territory, for both sides, and both sides were rather unstable now because of it.

These murders weren’t helping matters.

“Do you think… whatever it is will move Up, or Down in your case, the chain of command?” Gabriel asked, those stupid violet eyes flicking to regard Beelzebub. They raised an eyebrow.

“Are you worried about me?” They asked, utterly incredulous, and Gabriel looked righteously affronted.

“Of course not! What a ridiculous notion!” He waved away one of their flies, “I’m merely worried that a power vacuum in Hell won’t help matters, I mean I’m all for Hell’s destruction, but it should be orderly and clean-cut.”

Beelzebub nodded, absently. “I wazzz going to azzzk zzzomething zzzimilar. No one wantzzz Heaven in dizzzarray yet, too much paperwork.”

The Archangel nodded, “It’s been hard work, covering up the murders. Can’t have anyone panicking and abandoning their posts.”

“Have you thought about recalling your Earth agentzzz?” Beelzebub asked. They had certainly considered it but, murders or no, there was still a quota to fill and, since Crowley was gone, they’d had to employ other demons in his stead. It was supremely irritating, however, when these new tempters proved sub-par to the Traitor. It would have been better for Hell overall to have had a small group of demons on Earth for all those years so a demon going AWOL wouldn’t be missed.

That idea had a flaw though, an entire group of demons going native and becoming immune to holy water would have been much worse, so they made do with sloppy temptations and half-assed ‘evil’ plans.

Gabriel hummed, “I did consider it, but we still have a duty from the Almighty. Can’t abandon Earth when it's still there, now can we.” He smiled; they hated that smile. It did weird things to their insides and they hated it.

“Zzzame,” They buzzed, “Zzzo we play the long game? Try to draw out the killer?”

“We’re going to have a meeting, the other Archangels and I, I mean. We’ll try to flesh out a plan but, in the meantime, yes, we should try to keep our agents safe and attempt to smoke out the murderer.” The Archangel paused and Beelzebub, now familiar with their counterpart’s facial cues, waited for the idea.

“We could… take a leaf out of their book.” Gabriel murmured, almost to himself. Beelzebub huffed.

“Who’zzz book?”

“The Traitors.”

Beelzebub nearly laughed, “You can’t be zzeriouzzz…” 

Gabriel raised a perfect eyebrow.

“Lilith, you are zzzeriouzz.”

“I mean it. If whatever this is has been on Earth since its Creation, then it must have tried hunting them. None of our additional agents were ever on Earth long and they were never alone. Perhaps their illicit partnership was what kept them safe.”

Beelzebub paused thoughtfully, “It izz pozzzible, but we can’t let  _ everyone _ know about thizzz. There would be riotzzz!”

Gabriel nodded, “We should just... arrange for our agents to be stationed close to one another. They do their jobs on Earth, we get our respective souls, and we buy more time in order to figure this mess out.”

“I can do that,” Beelzebub agreed, holding out a petite hand. Gabriel took it.

“Truce?” They said with a grin.

“Truce.”

* * *

_ 1 _ _ Even the thought made him blush. _

_ 2 _ _ Not counting that stint he’d had in the French courts during the sixteenth century but that was simply because he had been allotted royally appointed chambers and definitely not because he liked silk. _

_ 3 _ _ Although Crowley couldn’t resist nudging a few wayward feathers back in line because Aziraphale’s wings were always in a bit of a state. _

_ 4 _ _ Aziraphale had just enough of his wits still about him to tuck his wings back in before he sat on them. _

_ 5 _ _ And frankly much too long—eternity was all well and good but she did want to get to the good parts of conversations—one’s own name grew far too boring after having been repeated four thousand five hundred and thirty two times in a single conversation over a small binary star with  _ **_Her_ ** _ —she’d missed the birth of Alpha Centauri for that one. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna lie, my favourite part of this was writing Worried!Crowley. I have the feeling that whenever Aziraphale feels mildly off Crowley WILL find out and then mother-hen his angel until he's feeling better.
> 
> Next up, Anathema barges in to try and figure out what the hell is going on and drags a very reluctant Newt along with her.
> 
> As always kudos and comments are very welcome and much appreciated :)


	5. A Witch's Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anathema gives her professional ~~witchy~~ occultist opinion; Newt is faintly petrified; and Crowley is Protective TM.

Newt had rather been enjoying his holiday. 

Anathema was the best girlfriend he’d ever had1, and he was quite miffed their romantic Spanish getaway had been interrupted.

That irritation had transcended to genuine concern when he realised exactly whose block of flats they’d pulled up to in Dick Turpin.

“Why are we at the demon’s house?” He asked, and it seemed a perfectly reasonable question to him. He did remember the airfield and he was pretty sure the demon was on their side but Newt had always been a cautious glass-half-empty sort of guy, especially when it came to demons.

Who exist, apparently. 

Anathema gave him a side-glare. She was scary good at that. Really any glare Anathema bestowed had a habit of being scary.

“That demon’s name is Crowley.” She huffed irritably, “And he called last week in a panic about Aziraphale fainting and now I get a call that Aziraphale’s woken up again. We’re here to help our friends and to investigate why an ethereal being older than London itself fainted for a week for seemingly supernatural reasons. I’m an occultist, honey, this is the sort of thing I love.”

Newt’s eyes widened comically, “A week? That doesn’t… do angels need exercise? Like, do they get deep vein thrombosis? Or bed sores? I mean I know a week isn’t _too_ long, medically speaking, but are we really qualified to treat an angel? I don’t have any rivaroxaban or apixaban on me, just paracetamol and some smelling salts. Would medicine even affect him? It's just—” He was silenced mid ramble by Anathema placing a delicate tan finger against his lips.

“Honey, Aziraphale is fine. If it were anything mundane like that Crowley wouldn’t have bothered contacting me, they have been here for six thousand years, remember?”

Anathema clambered out of the car, clutching her purse full of witchy odds and ends, and Newt followed—trying not to dwell on the fact they were literally entering a demon’s lair and that said demon was six millennia old; he hoped demons didn’t grow grumpier with age.

They were buzzed through immediately; Newt suspected the demon waiting in the flat above had been hovering by the button to let them through. Anathema didn’t even slow down. Crowley answered the flat door the second they knocked and Newt was infinitely glad that the demon had those sunglasses on, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to stop staring at those serpentine eyes if he didn’t, and he definitely did not want to offend Crowley.

Judging by the demon's already less-than-pleased frown, it was a wise move.

“You certainly took your sweet time getting here, book girl. Two days is not what I call quick.”

“Where is he?” Asked Anathema, completely cool and straight to the point.

Crowley gestured and they stepped into the flat’s foyer. Newt had roughly three seconds to appreciate the stunningly modern apartment and the strange statue of two winged guys fighting before Crowley spun on his demonic heel and walked briskly in, Anathema following close behind.

The bedroom Crowley took them to surprised Newt once more with its simple monochrome colour scheme, he had honestly expected more reds, or at least a little orange somewhere. It was a strangely undemonic choice of aesthetics unless Crowley was going more for goth, but that seemed like a stretch. 

In the bed lay the angel. He didn’t look too different from the last time Newt had seen him, his hair was still that astounding platinum—a colour greatly amplified by the dark backdrop—and his face was still round and cheerful even in sleep. He was, however, without his usual English professor’s outfit and was instead dressed in white silk pyjamas that were clearly very expensive and much too modern looking for it to be the angel’s own clothes.

The entire scene had Newt suddenly hit with the desire to write vague poetry- something about angels sleeping in demon lairs. It certainly sounded like some of the old poems his English teacher had forced him to study.

Crowley shuffled over to Aziraphale’s side and placed a gentle hand on the angel’s shoulder. Blue eyes snapped open instantly and Aziraphale sat up.

“Aziraphale?” Anathema took a tentative step forward. She and the angel had become friends after Armagedidn’t, she being helplessly curious about him and he being perfectly content to entertain her questions and enjoy her company, but he was still an ancient, immortal being with enough power to snap her in half if he so chose. That and he was apparently ill, if what she had gathered from Crowley’s garbled voicemail had been correct, so she chose to err on the side of caution.

Aziraphale smiled and the tension she wasn’t aware had been building vanished.

“Anathema, my dear," He said, his face lighting up with a smile, "It’s so good to see you.”

Anathema found herself smiling as well, as did Newt who had honestly been expecting some sort of Exorcist scene considering there was a literal demon standing in the room2.

“I’ve been hearing quite a lot about you, Aziraphale, most of it was rather incoherant but I hope you’re feeling better?” She stepped to the angel’s side, knelt, and peered up at him. Studying his aura as she readjusted her glasses.

“Oh, I feel quite splendid, my dear. Even if some people, “He pointedly glared at Crowley who was suddenly very interested in the ceiling, “Don’t believe me.”

Newt suppressed a snort.

Anathema squinted, the angel’s aura was of a soft, sky blue. Serene, calm, balanced. It suited him perfectly. However, something hovered just on the edge of the coloured light, a slightly darker vein of blue, something that was apart and yet very much the same. That certainly wasn’t normal.

“Can you tell me what’s been happening?” She asked.

Aziraphale winced, “It’s rather difficult to explain, my dear. Why don’t you take a seat?” He gestured to the two chairs that had definitely not been there before. Crowley growled.

“Angel, I told you. No miracles!”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, dear.” Aziraphale retorted, primly and perhaps a tad petulantly. Anathema chuckled and took a seat on the wonderfully plush chair closest to the bed.

The angel shook his head, “Anyway, yes. I’m afraid for the past few weeks things have been rather… strange.”

“By strange he means he keeps fainting and dreaming weird shit.” Crowley supplied .

Aziraphale blinked, “I… uhm… precisely. I suppose. But the strangest thing is the first four dreams I had were distinctly _bad_.”

Anathema quirked an eyebrow. “Bad? Bad how?”

“It was… I’m fairly sure three took place in Hell,” Crowley stiffened noticeably but said nothing, “And every time I awoke, I was aching terribly like I had exercised far too much.”

Anathema frowned, “What were you feeling during these dreams, anything specific?”

“I got… flashes of emotion. In the first dream I had it was… a sort of serene happiness and then a sudden flash of horror or agony, it was hard to tell. The second one was the most painful and I definitely felt some sort of sorrow or a deep regret. By the third there was the beginnings of extreme fatigue and by the fourth dream that feeling was overwhelming, and then- “

“Then you shot awake and yelled Satan’s name in my face.” Crowley finished, grimacing.

“I’m guessing Satan showed up in your dream.” Anathema surmised, Aziraphale nodded.

“Yes, but when I fainted for a week the dream was _good_. I felt better when I woke up. And I haven’t fainted since.”

Anathema frowned, “Well it’s definitely not natural as far as I know.” Crowley grinned triumphantly and Aziraphale sighed.

“It sounds like some sort of possession. Now,” She blithely ignored their twin looks of horror as she dug around in her purse, “I haven’t got any practical experience in these matters, but I’ve studied different accounts of possession by various witches over the centuries so I'm pretty sure I've got the theory down pat.” 

She withdrew a dowsing rod from the purse and laid it on the bed. “It sounds to me like you’re witnessing memories. Either your own that have been corrupted in order to hurt you or someone is projecting their mind over yours. In either case we first need to discover what or who it is that’s doing this and for that we need to ensure that your link is still active. Considering you haven't fainted recently there is a fairly good chance it isn’t, in which case we’ll just use a ward in order to prevent whatever it is from entering your mind again, but if it is active a ward won't help and we'll have to draw whatever it is out and permanently banish it from you.” A pile of candles joined the rod, then several sticks of chalk, and then something that looked disturbingly like human bone.

Aziraphale’s eyes were as round as saucers by the time she had finished unpacking; clutching a bottle of pills that had no label. 

To both celestial beings’ relief, she packed away everything but the pills. Newt had been particularly wary of a bottle that had contained a sludgy red liquid and a small tooth that didn’t look like it had belonged to any animal he’d ever seen. For one thing it had _twitched_.

“So, what is it you’re wanting to do, book girl?” Crowley asked, eyeing the pills suspiciously.

“Well, in order to establish if there is an active link, I’m going to have to try to induce one of those dreams.” Anathema unscrewed the bottle and tipped two lilac tinted pills into her palm. Crowley frowned.

“So, your plan is to drug Aziraphale into sleeping and then hope whatever it is that’s doing this to him decides to take the bait?” The demon growled and Newt edged his seat away slightly, “That’s a stupid plan.”

Anathema glared and Newt was suitably impressed when Crowley glared back just as menacingly.

“Do you have a better idea? One _single_ better idea?” She asked which prompted, weirdly, a flinch from Crowley and an oddly nostalgic smile from Aziraphale.

Crowley spluttered for a second, “I… no it’s just- “

“Its entirely up to Aziraphale in any case,” Anathema interrupted, pointedly turning to face the angel, “It is risky, I won’t lie, it’s possible that when I lower your mind’s defences whatever it is that’s trying to get to you may prevent you from waking up or even take you over completely. And unfortunately, I can’t draw a holding circle in case it interferes.”

Aziraphale absorbed this and spent a moment considering. “Alright.”

Crowley’s jaw dropped, “Angel, you can’t be seriousss!” His tongue flickered out in his distress and Newt was, by this point, running out of bedroom to edge away in.

“Dear, we hardly have much choice.” Aziraphale chided, gently, “If this stops these unfortunate fainting spells for good, I say we attempt it.”

“But-!”

“Crowley,” The use of the demon’s given name shut him up, “Dear, the next one might have me out for two weeks. Or a month. I dread to think what you’d do if it were a year.”

The look on Crowley’s face suggested that this was not a possibility that had crossed his mind and, now that it had, the demon was dearly wishing it hadn’t.

“…Fine. But you’d better pull this off without a hitch, book girl, otherwise I’m not going to be in a forgiving mood.” Crowley levelled both a glare and a black-nailed finger in Anathema's direction as he spoke, gesticulating with the gravitas of a knight wielding a greatsword. The threat was slightly undercut by the absolutely ferocious glare Aziraphale sent Crowley’s way, however, which had the demon paling under the glasses. It seemed Anathema had divine, as well as demonic, competition when it came to glaring.

“He means well, my dear,” Aziraphale said to Anathema who had not taken Crowley’s threat very seriously in the first place.

“Yes, well, I need you to take these," She handed the pills to Aziraphale, “And I need those two,” she gestured to Newt and Crowley, “To leave.”

Aziraphale studied the pills in his hand whilst Crowley vehemently protested leaving the bedroom. Newt had already scooted the plush chair halfway to the door, so he continued edging closer to it whilst his girlfriend argued with the increasingly irate demon. His life, upon reflection, was decidedly very odd right now.

“Dear, could I have something to drink?” Aziraphale’s calm voice stopped the demon’s passionate rant mid-curse and Crowley swivelled to face the angel.

“What would you like?” The difference was astonishing. One minute Crowley was yelling at the top of his lungs that _‘his angel was too sick to risk it without him’_ and that _‘Anathema clearly wasn’t taking this seriously’_ ; and the next he was smiling indulgently at Aziraphale and politely asking what beverage the angel wanted. Newt was so thoroughly astounded that he barely noticed his chair hitting the bedroom door.

“The pills should be taken with plain water,” Anathema advised and Aziraphale nodded.

“Some water would do perfectly, dear.” Crowley appeared to war with two divergent instincts. One to protect Aziraphale from the suddenly much-too-witchy woman offering strangely coloured pills and the other to do whatever it took to please the angel he was so worried about.

Aziraphale was smiling sweetly. 

Crowley miracled a glass of water into his hand and passed it to Aziraphale as carefully as he would have were it full of the much holier variety of liquid.

“Now, dear, do as Anathema says.” He raised one perfectly manicured hand at Crowley’s first word of protest. “Crowley, she’s the expert in these matters. I think we should listen to her.”

Anathema waved to get the demon’s attention, which Newt thought was extraordinarily brave, “I’m not doing this for no reason, Crowley. I can hide my aura very well so any intruding mind won’t notice me but if you and Newt are in here whatever it is that’s attacking Aziraphale might not show itself. And we need to discover whether or not the link is still active before we do anything _,_ so we need to do everything possible to ensure whatever it is shows up.”

Newt watched as Crowley bit his lip; torn again between wanting to refuse on principle and doing what his angel wanted. The demon threw his hands in the air.

“Fine! If this is what Aziraphale wants, then I’m fine with it. But,” He turned to Aziraphale and brandished a finger again, “You’d better come back in one piece, you hear me?”

Aziraphale smiled, “Of course dear, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

With this small platitude given, Crowley marched out of the room, grabbing Newt none too gently by the collar thereby upsetting the chair that had so bravely carried its passenger to the door, and hauled him out as well. Newt caught one last glimpse of Anathema and Aziraphale before the door shut and he was alone in the apartment with a considerably less-than-ecstatic demon.

***

Aziraphale swallowed the pills with a generous amount of water at Anathema’s prompting.

“Lay back and try to relax, they work quickly.” Anathema leaned back in her chair as Aziraphale leaned back into the pillows.

“Before I do pop off, my dear, could you answer one question?” He could feel the pull of the drugs already and it was taking an effort to keep his eyes open.

“Shoot.” Anathema was idly stroking a cross on a silver chain, Aziraphale chose not to comment on it.

“How on Earth did you fit all of that… equipment in that bag of yours?”

Anathema’s answering laugh was lost on the angel as hazy oblivion closed in.

***

_Heaven was lovely. She had a feeling that was some sort of understatement._

_Angels surrounded her, travelling from one place to another under_ **_Her_ ** _orders, soldiers carrying out_ **_Her_ ** _will. Love permeated every action, love of_ **_Her_ ** _, love of each other, and a general undercurrent of affection for everything that surrounded them._ ****

_Her own abundance of love had a profound effect on the angels around her, even in this miasma of heavenly affection. They smiled when they had no reason to and heated words soon softened, understanding flourishing wherever she wandered._

_It was, she reflected, easier to resolve arguments when Prudence or Wisdom was with her, but she made do without them._

_Wisdom was currently somewhere in Heaven, she was sure, most probably having another chat with Raziel. Being an angel of knowledge and secrets was all well and good, her Brother had reasoned, but one must have the wisdom to use it effectively._

_Her Brother had been rather less humble of late and his surge of arrogance was a source of great amusement among the Siblings. It would pass; her mild-mannered Brother wasn’t one for letting his personality shift with every new emotion that emerged as the Universe continued to develop. She herself was pleased to have pushed through a phase Wisdom had dubbed ‘Mania’ which had resulted in a lot of… collecting._

_Luckily the Cherubs, those darlings, had been very understanding and sympathetic, if a bit miffed that their work had been interrupted.  
_

_She was lucky her younger Sister, Wrath, wasn’t around. Apparently, her other younger Sister, Temperance, was having an awful time trying to keep Wrath’s newest spate of tantrums in check. She’d apparently destroyed a star, though which one Love wasn’t sure, and Raphael had been dreadfully upset. She would help but Temperance had assured her that Wrath would calm down soon._

_Granted she’d said this whilst being held in a chokehold by their Sister who had literally been set alight by her fury, so Love hadn’t been entirely convinced._

_“My Lady!” Called a voice from behind. She turned and her face lit up with a smile._

_“Gabriel! My dear, how are you?” She enveloped the Archangel in a hug and Gabriel returned it enthusiastically. When they separated Gabriel was grinning ear to ear, those lovely violet eyes glowing with mirth._

_“I’m just fine, my Lady.” He said, ever polite._

_Due to the burgeoning hierarchy of Heaven she and her Siblings, as they were not angels but also not God, were given the simple titles of Lord and Lady according to whichever gender they preferred at the time. Her youngest Brother, Faith, exploring a playfulness hitherto undiscovered, had greatly confused a significant chunk of the Cherubim by switching genders at random. He had done it so often that nearly half of the poor dears had been convinced that there were two Faiths, one female and the other male, whilst the true Faith had had a stern talking to from the Siblings’ eldest Sister, Time, who had not been as amused._

_“How are the Seraphim, my dear? Is Michael proving a fair instructor?” She asked; Michael had been trained by both Wrath and Justice, so Love had been a little hesitant for the Archangel to start training new warriors in lieu of Wrath’s current temper tantrum. Gabriel’s stunning smile put her fears to rest._

_“Michael may be a little harsh, but the results speak for themselves. I dare say her students could take on Lady Wrath herself!” Gabriel said, cheerfully, speaking of his own sister with overwhelming pride. Love smiled and, taking Gabriel by the arm, they began walking down the corridor._

_“I dare say they could try but my Sister is a little too… hot to handle at the moment, so perhaps later.” She waved at a passing gaggle of angels who waved back a little shyly. Love being one of the nebulous Ladies/Lords they were never sure what was the proper greeting. Love preferred it casual, but she knew her younger brother, Prudence, liked more formal gestures._

_She had heard his latest preference was a quick bow, which was certainly an improvement on his previous insistence on much more elegant and flourishing bows which had had the Seraphim actively avoiding him to aid their aching backs._

_“Honestly I hadn’t noticed,” Gabriel said, wryly._

_All of Heaven had seen Wrath’s display and the subsequent destruction of the star. The explosion had been so violently large that even Abyss had taken notice._

_And had then dived for cover with the rest of Heaven to ride out the aftermath._

_“Speaking of Michael,” Love began, “I’ve been meaning to ask after the others, how are they all? I’m afraid its been much too long since I’ve seen them.” It had been centuries since she had last spoken with Gabriel’s younger siblings and she missed them. These days it seemed as if everyone was far too engrossed with Creation to do much else._

_“Raphael is still off making stars, made something called a red giant the other day, it was absolutely massive, or so Uriel tells me, and she ended up having to take him to Zadkiel for the burns. Sarathiel and Ananiel are helping some of the Cherubim form clouds, those things are horribly tricky to get right and the Cherubim were getting in an awful state.” Love hummed sympathetically as they exited the corridor into a larger conference room filled with angels—a low hum of chatter in the air._

_“Michael, as you know, is training new warriors. I tried sparring with her, she broke my neck, accidentally of course. Zadkiel was furious with her, it took him ages to heal me.” He chuckled at the memory. Love placed a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder._

_“My dear, that’s awful! Were you in any pain?”_

_“No. Well, yes, but not for very long, I assure you.” Gabriel smiled again and gestured to his unmarked neck. “Zadkiel is an excellent healer.”_

_They passed through the room with its chattering angels and into another corridor. This one had a window along one wall and revealed a spectacular view of Heaven spanning out before them. Love smiled as she gazed at the stars high above._

_“And Lucifer?”_

_At this Gabriel paused. He seemed to be struggling to find the right words. Love waited patiently. They had all the time in the Universe._

***

Crowley was fine.

Crowley was _completely_ fine.

It was totally normal behaviour for him to be pacing back and forth in his living room as he checked his ridiculously huge watch every minute.

Half an hour had passed in what seemed like an ice age. 

Two hours had passed in excruciating slow motion. 

Now the three hour mark was coming up and Crowley’s patience had officially run out.

He’d never been the most patient demon, even at the best of times, and this was certainly not even remotely close to best. He was surprised he’d managed three hours. The human3 had been wandering the apartment for the past hour after spending the first hour and a half trying to engage Crowley in conversation.

His tenacity had surprised the demon, but his questions had bordered on the infuriating. Crowley had refrained from punching him mainly because he feared what Heavenly retribution that would bring from Aziraphale but also because Newt was strangely endearing. He was like a puppy and Crowley—demon or not—had always liked dogs.

Right now, however, with Newt’s distracting questions absent and nothing interesting to watch on his flat screen tv, Crowley was seriously considering breaking down the bedroom door.

Scratch that.

He _was_ going to kick down the damn door.

It was entirely possible Crowley was pumped up on too much adrenaline and more than a week’s worth of worry over his angel and wasn’t thinking straight as a result. In fact, that was exactly the conclusion Anathema formed when Crowley broke down the bedroom door half a minute later.

“Crowley!” Anathema shot upright from the chair and marched over to the demon. “You can’t be here!”

Crowley snarled so ferociously that Anathema took a half step back, remembering belatedly that the creature in front of her was as powerful as Aziraphale and considerably less than happy.

“He’s been like this for three hours! Hasn’t it been long enough to establish a- a link or whatever the fuck it is you need?”

It had been enough time to establish that there was indeed a link between Aziraphale and some unknown outside force, but she needed more time in order to determine exactly what it was that was invading the angel’s mind. 

One look at Crowley’s expression convinced her that was a problem for later.

“I… I’ll bring him round now.” She hurried to Aziraphale’s side. “Could you get Newt? He’s got some of my smelling salts, it should help Aziraphale wake up.” Anathema placed her hands to Aziraphale’s forehead and closed her eyes.

Crowley took it as his cue to get the boyfriend. He was fairly certain that fool was in the green room and vowed vengeance if the idiot had hurt any of the plants, Crowley had seen the state of electronics that encountered Newt and dreaded to think what that strange power would do to living vegetation. 

He was halfway there when he heard a loud shriek from the bedroom.

* * *

_ 1 _ _Or the only one, but semantics._

 _ 2 _ _Said demon was, however, ruining any potentially ominous vibe by hovering by Aziraphale’s side like an anxious mother. Newt was too scared of him to comment on it, though._

 _ 3 _ _Crowley remembered his name was Newt and wondered briefly why the kid’s parents had been so mean._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned how much I love writing Worried!Crowley? Because I love writing him like that.
> 
> Have I also mentioned that I like leaving cliffhangers? I like that too. Because I'm ~~cruel~~ a fan of suspense.  
> As always kudos and comments are very welcome and much appreciated :)


	6. Going Out with a Bang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery deepens; Adam gets to join in; and there is an explosionTM.

_ “Gabriel?” The Archangel beside her was silent, his brow creased with what looked like worry, “Gabriel are you alright dear?” _

_ “Lucifer is-” _

_ “Right here, brother.” Came the voice of a much beloved Archangel. _

_ The pair swivelled around. Gabriel’s worried frown softened as he embraced his older brother. _

_ Love recoiled in horror. _

_ Lucifer stood there. Swathed in white cloth that blackened and charred even as she watched. His once golden eyes were now empty pools of infinite black with the glow of hellfire somewhere in their depths. And his six beautiful wings were reduced to broken shards of bone held together by fragile sinew. _

_ “My Lady?” He asked, black ichor spilling from his pale lips, “Is something wrong?” _

_ Lucifer released Gabriel—who wiped the ash from his robes with a smile—and stepped forward. Love backed away another step. _

_ “Whatever’s the matter my Lady?” Lucifer asked again, smiling so wide the skin of his cheeks split and leaked more ichor down his chest, it was starting to pool on the floor. “Didn’t you know  _ **_She_ ** _ hated you? You’re like us.” _

_ In a single breath Heaven fell away and Love shrieked as she plummeted down. This… this couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t how it happened! This was not what had happened! _

_ Her golden wings began to burn, and the agony stole the breath from her- unable to scream as she Fell.  _

_ She opened her eyes at the soft touch of a hand to her face. _

_ “Don’t you see, Lady Love?” Lucifer asked, slick black drops spilling from his face onto hers, “ _ **_She_ ** _ sent you Down here. You can’t leave me.” _

_ No that wasn’t how it had happened! _

_ Abruptly she was back in Hell. Standing before Lucifer next to the boiling pit. _

_ The Fallen Archangel was seething, the pit behind him churning and bubbling with unrestrained ferocity. _

_ All at once her fatigue returned and she fell to her knees; blackened and bloody hands coming into view atop a ruined dress, ash-stained wings crumpling around her. _

_ Black rock cut into her skin; this was real, not some fleeting memory of Before the Fall. The pain centred her in the present.  _

_ In Hell. _

_ “You’re stronger than I thought.” Her tormentor said, for she knew he was responsible, and the feeling of his cold fingers jerking her head up filled her with an icy dread. _

_ The small, determined smile on his face made that feeling worse, “But I’ll break you. I’ll break them all.” _

_ She closed her eyes and blissful oblivion took her. _

***

“ **Aziraphale** !”

Aziraphale shot upward, tears streaming down his face, and narrowly avoided headbutting Crowley.

Through bleary eyes he saw Anathema clutching burnt hands and was dimly aware of the smell of charred flesh. Crowley’s glasses were missing and Aziraphale could see his own face reflected in those serpentine eyes.

He was crying  _ gold _ .

Big fat drops of molten gold—of liquid  _ Grace _ —crawled down his cheeks and burned the silk of his shirt. Crowley was saying something but Aziraphale couldn’t hear him over the buzzing in his ears. The weight of ancient agony was pressing down on his chest; he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

He must have looked like it too because Crowley was trying to get Aziraphale to breathe with him.

It took ten minutes for him to start breathing again and in that time Crowley had miracled Anathema’s burns away and ordered the two humans into the living room.

_“Angel? Can you hear me?”_

Aziraphale wiped a burning tear from his face and it hardened like metal on his fingers. It was definitely Grace. Aziraphale hadn’t had much cause over his life to truly get acquainted with what was the equivalent of an angel’s blood, but it couldn’t be anything else. Though he was quite certain it couldn’t (all) be his since he knew to lose this much meant certain discorporation.

The thought wasn’t all that comforting.

The golden liquid stained Crowley’s jacket and Aziraphale felt absurdly guilty about it, but he tried to focus on that one feeling that was his own.

He wasn’t terrified even though his heart was pounding in his ears.  


He wasn’t in pain even though his very bones ached.  


He hadn’t Fallen.

Even though it felt like he had.

His wings unfurled. He remembered seeing them, heavy with sulphur and dusted with ash. But he also remembered them as gold. His were white, always had been, and their ethereal glow gave him an anchor from which to cling to. Metaphorically speaking anyway.

In the literal world he was clinging, rather desperately, to Crowley.

“Shh, angel, it’s okay. It’s okay I’m here.”

Aziraphale realised he had been sobbing Crowley’s name into the demon’s jacket. He tried to stop. He liked to think he managed to.

They sat there for half an hour, Crowley gently stroking Aziraphale’s platinum curls and kissing his head. The crying eventually ceased, a pool of cooling Grace melting into the bed and coating the both of them in a thin layer of liquid divinity. Aziraphale pulled away, gold sticking to Crowley’s jacket and his own face.

Crowley smiled ruefully and gestured to the jacket, “You’ve gone and ruined it now.”

Aziraphale laughed, a bit weakly true, but it felt good. Some happiness to cling to in the roiling storm of foreign agony that was currently embedded in his chest.

“I think we may have a problem, my dear.” He said, his voice was thick, and he had a feeling some of the Grace had run down his throat. It being divine in origin, the Grace wasn’t burning him, and neither was it burning Crowley to his great relief. Thank… well thank Someone for small mercies.

“Understatement of the fucking millennium, angel.” Crowley chuckled and wiped away another welling tear.

“I don’t think I’ve ever cried Grace before.” Aziraphale said, scooping up some of the still-cooling metal-like liquid on the bed.

“I don’t really think you’re meant to cry this shit, angel.” Crowley remarked as Aziraphale let the gold spill through his fingers onto his lap.

Crowley took his angel’s hands in his own, gold running down the demon’s fingers. “Do you want to get rid of this? Or should I?” Aziraphale blinked then glanced at the golden pool. It disappeared, the bed fixed itself, and his and Crowley’s clothes mended themselves. Crowley huffed.

“I said get rid of the gold. You didn’t have to fix everything else. You’re still…”

“Possessed?” Aziraphale provided, helpfully. Crowley grimaced.

“Yeah. That. You need to take it really easy, angel.”

Aziraphale chuckled weakly, “I’m not sure how much easier I can take it, dear. Perhaps we should see what Anathema thinks. I still have to apologise for her poor hands. You did get rid of the burns, yes?”

“Yes, angel. I did. She should be fine.”

Aziraphale waved a hand and he was suddenly wearing a soft cream jumper and trousers instead of the white silk pyjamas; he eschewed his usual outfit simply because the soft jumper and trousers were much more comfortable over his still-sensitive skin, that and he didn’t want to ruin his 200 year-old jacket should he cry again.

He took the advantage of Crowley’s shocked pause to slide off the bed.

“A-Angel! You-!”

“Aren’t going to get better by staying in bed. I thought we established that already, dear?” Aziraphale shot back, gently, “And I’d rather apologise on my own two feet. More sincere that way.”

He ignored Crowley’s strangled protest and left the bedroom. He felt better for leaving the bed behind and the knot of foreign pain relented slightly. It was in no way gone, but it was no longer as tight in his chest. 

Anathema sat on the couch examining her hands carefully. A new knot of guilt twisted in Aziraphale’s chest, but he put on a smile. 

“How are your hands, my dear?” Anathema jumped slightly and Newt eyed him from her side. Well he supposed he deserved the scrutiny.

“Fine, Aziraphale. They’re just fine. Never been on the receiving end of a miracle before. Marvellous, aren’t they?” To Aziraphale’s great relief, Anathema seemed more interested in the miracle Crowley had bestowed than who had ensured the miracle had been needed.

“But we have more important problems.” She added and Newt seemed incredulous. Then again hearing your girlfriend scream in pain only to arrive and see her physically fine whilst molten metal poured from an angel’s eyes probably looked rather problematic all on its own.

“And what, precisely, are those problems, book girl?” Said Crowley, presumably recovered from his shock, as he entered the living room. Glasses back on 1 , he steered Aziraphale to the couch 2 and sat him down on Anathema’s other side whilst sitting next to Aziraphale on the couch’s other end.

“Well, it wasn’t the gold tears that burned me; although I certainly have questions about that. It was some sort of… emotional backlash. Like whatever was showing you those memories was resisting my attempts to bring you out of it. I’ve read about it and usually if whatever it is that’s possessing the person is powerful enough it just rejects the witch and forces them out of the subject’s mind. Once or twice the witch has had burnt fingertips but-”

“But this one burned both of your hands.” Newt finished for her; mouse timid.

“Yes.”

Crowley groaned, “We never get a fucking break! First bloody Armageddon, then the stupid Trials, and now this! If this is Beelzebub, I’m going to get a hose, attach it to the Vatican’s jacuzzi, and spray 'em until they’re nothing more than a buzzing splodge of goo.”

“The presence didn’t feel very demonic.” Anathema added, helpfully. Crowley grinned madly.

“If it's Gabriel I’m gonna barbeque him.” 

Newt looked faint.

Desperate to save the poor man from imminent unconsciousness, Aziraphale steered the conversation away from murdering their respective ex-bosses. “So, you’re telling us that the being responsible for all this is powerful enough to hurt you  _ through _ me?”

“Yes, it seems so.”

Aziraphale paled slightly. “Is there anything you can do?”

Newt looked confused, “You guys can’t do anything?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at the young man, “Angel’s don’t tend to get possessed often. Or at all, s’far as I know. We're as clueless as you are.”

Anathema nodded. “I originally planned on a simple warding but given how powerful this thing seems to be I doubt anything short of a full exorcism would work.”

Crowley flinched, “I’ve seen exorcisms before, they aren’t pleasant.”

“No, they aren’t,” Anathema agreed, “And judging by the apparent power this spirit has we can’t do it in London. We’ll need a protected and isolated place away from any possible bystanders and a strong holding circle. My house should do fine.”

“Wait, wait, wait. We’re going to exorcise a demon in our  _ own _ _house_?” Newt squeaked. Anathema turned to her boyfriend.

“Unless you want to try it in Soho and risk everyone in a two-mile radius. If that thing burned my hands when I tried to wake Aziraphale up I doubt it’ll stay docile enough for us to try to exorcise it. It could try to break the circle or even summon a few demons or angels to help defend itself, depending on its allegiance. We don’t know what it’ll do so I say we try it in the safest place I know.”

Newt wasn’t done, “But what about a… a church or something? Consecrated ground? A priest? I’ve seen movies, don’t you need a priest?”

Crowley laughed humourlessly, “Don’t need a priest to exorcise something. Just need to know the right words and truly believe in whatever you’re trying to exorcise. No church needed.”

Anathema stared at her unburned hands, Aziraphale felt another twinge of guilt, “I don’t believe I’ll have any problem believing this thing is real and I know the correct incantations so it shouldn’t be much of a problem.”

“If you just ignore the fact that whatever we’re trying to banish apparently has metaphysical powers beyond mortal or immortal ken, then yes, everything should be just tickety-boo.” Muttered Crowley. Aziraphale, realising that the demon was holding his hand rather tightly, squeezed back reassuringly.

“Right,” Anathema said, ruining an otherwise lovely moment, “I think we should get this over with as soon as possible. I don’t want to find out what else it can do.”

With that the conversation was concluded and an unhappy witchfinder, a cautiously optimistic witch, a  _ very _ unhappy demon, and a very-tired-and-still-rather-sore angel left the apartment soon after. Once outside, Crowley looked in abject horror upon the spectacle that was Dick Turpin and hurriedly pushed the angel in the direction of the Bentley. Aziraphale hoped Newt didn’t take offense but judging by the young man’s expression, Crowley’s sudden and drastic disinterest in being anywhere near the three-wheeled car was a gift from the heavens.

The inside of the Bentley was comfortable and familiar. Same old leather, same stereo, same never-ending stack of  _ Best of Queen _ albums with misleading labels like  _ Velvet Underground _ and  _ Metallica _ . For the first time since he had woken up this morning to the news of Anathema’s imminent arrival, Aziraphale relaxed.

As the Bentley began the journey towards Tadfield and passed much too close to the dreaded three-wheeler, Queen’s ‘ _ I’m In Love With My Car _ ’ started playing. 

Aziraphale almost laughed.

***

Adam Young was enjoying Tadfield.

Admittedly he was enjoying the weekend more than he had done the week but what kid didn’t enjoy the two days of mandatory freedom from school? It was barely one in the afternoon and the Them had already stolen apples from the orchard, got horrendously filthy in Hogback woods 3 , and they had all bought an ice cream; with Brian managing to slop most of his down his damp t-shirt. 

All in all, a pretty good day from the ex-Antichrist’s point of view. And it was still ages before dark!

What made the day even better was the earlier text from Anathema which went something like this:

**_Awesome Occultist Aunt:_ ** _ Just been to see your uncles. Zira’s sick. Occult stuff. Bringing him home. _

**_Me:_ ** _ sick? like cold sick? angelic cold? _

**_Awesome Occultist Aunt:_ ** _ No. Explain when we arrive. _

Anathema was probably Adam’s favourite grown-up, other than his parents. She never talked down to him and always tried to include him in her  ~~witchy~~ _ occultist _ stuff. Two weeks after Armagedidn’t she had taken him stargazing; pointing out about a billion constellations and explaining what they meant and what time of year they were powerful enough to affect spells. Adam had absorbed it all greedily and then dutifully informed the Them the following day. 

The Them were taking the whole ‘demons and angels actually exist’ thing really well, in Adam’s opinion. Kids were fantastically elastic and tended to bend instead of break with massive revelations and being best friends with the ex-Antichrist—and his tiny hell-hound-turned-terrier—had probably helped solidify it all. It had taken significantly longer for Anathema’s weird boyfriend to come around to the idea, and Adam still fondly remembered the week in which Newt was so petrified that all Adam had to do was squint at him for the man to freeze like a deer in headlights.

It had been supremely funny until Anathema had asked him to stop.

Anathema had said Aziraphale was sick and Adam was a little worried but more excited than anything to see his uncles again. He knew Crowley was coming too since he’d never seen one without the other unless Crowley was in a mood and was sulking and refusing to talk to Aziraphale; though such moods typically only lasted around ten minutes. 

Adam knew. He’d timed it.

Adam loved his ‘uncles’ like they were real family, just like he loved Anathema. The odd demon and angel couple 4 had endeared themselves to him forever when they had stood by his side during the soon-to-be-over Apocalypse. They were part of his perfect world that consisted of Dog, the Them, Anathema, Newt, his parents, and Tadfield.

And coming from the ex-Antichrist that was quite the honour.

The Them loved the pair as well and whenever they popped over to visit, they would be assailed by the gaggle of small, curious children 5 asking questions and being general nuisances. Crowley was, perhaps, the more fun-loving of the two 6 but in a sort of parenty way. Whenever the Them wanted to do something even slightly mischievous he was right there with them, setting traps and stealing apples, but if it ever got a little too much the demon would stop and pull Them away from the situation before anything serious happened 7 . 

Aziraphale was more motherly and would tend to any grazed knees or ruined clothes with a small smile and a gentle application of a miracle. He was also more huggable than Crowley and thus was often cocooned in small children when it came time for the two to leave. Angels seemed predisposed towards comfortable hugging temperature and Aziraphale was a bit softer than Crowley, so he got hugged.

A lot.

Crowley usually waited it out in the Bentley playing Candy Crush or something.

Now the two were coming again but this time the possibility of some sort of occult problem had Adam almost shaking with excitement. Dog could sense it and whined from the little basket on his bike as Adam pedalled as fast as he could towards Jasmine cottage. 

He was on his own, having promised to report back to the Them with the juicy details, as he’d deemed it perhaps slightly too dangerous for his friends. 

He was only the ex-Antichrist in name; he still had his powers, but was just more polite about using them, and that made him a little more resilient than his friends when it came to occult things. Granted, he really knew very little about Heaven and Hell, but he had seen movies and knew for a fact that your friends were always caught in the crossfire so Adam had decided that, from then on, his friends were going to be safe.

Considering he was the ex-Antichrist it wasn’t really a difficult promise to keep.

When the cottage came into view the black Bentley was already pulled up in the drive, a healthy distance from the light blue shape of Dick Turpin. Adam pedalled faster and nearly crashed the bike into the stone wall outside the cottage in his haste—luckily just avoiding the wall and instead upending the bike into a nearby hedge. Dog leapt out of the basket and ran for the front door, Adam close behind, picking a few stray twigs from his hair as he went.

He threw open the front door and raced inside. A sofa blocked his path and he vaulted it whilst wondering why on earth it wasn’t in the living room. His question was answered when he reached the room itself. It was completely barren except for a forlorn looking wooden stool and three people: one human and two celestials.

Aziraphale sat on the wooden floor, wearing uncharacteristically modern clothes, inside a chalk circle with weird squiggly shapes drawn around it. Adam recognised a few from Anathema’s lessons but most of them were unknown to him. Outside the circle was a ring of salt which, Adam knew, kept demons from crossing over. Aziraphale looked up at Adam’s rather dramatic arrival and smiled.

The angel looked terrible. 

His face, normally bright and cheerful, was that sickly grey of illness and he looked very tired. Adam had never seen him tired before and was almost sure that it wasn’t Aziraphale sitting in front of him. But no, no other person on earth had those blue eyes of his. Eyes which looked a bit brighter than normal, like they were a bit bluer. Adam spotted Crowley sitting as close as he could get to the angel trapped in the holding circle behind the salt ring, Crowley spotted him as well and leapt to his feet.

“What the fu-! Anathema why did you bring him here?” Adam looked over at his tutor who was busy flicking through one of her massive tomes. It was one of the few books he hadn’t been allowed to read and that Anathema had refused to even discuss.

“He’s an occultist in training. This kind of exorcism is a one-of-a-kind experience. He’s going to have to get practical at some point.” Anathema said, voice muffled by the thick book. Newt was nowhere to be seen and Adam suspected the bane of modern technology was busily cowering in his bedroom.

“Anathema, dear, this may be a little intense for him.” Said Aziraphale. He  _ sounded _ okay at least.

“He used to be the Antichrist. I think he can handle an exorcism.” Anathema retorted. Adam nodded his head vigorously. He wasn’t sure what an exorcism was exactly, but he gathered that it was important and necessary for helping Aziraphale. 

“Possession is a bit much for a kid.” Crowley said, gesturing in Aziraphale’s general direction. Adam’s interest was piqued even further. He had dealt with possession before when it had been Aziraphale possessing Madame Tracy 8 and now he stared hard at Aziraphale. That same tingly feeling of  _ not right _ was there. Like something had attached itself to the angel sitting serenely in the circle and was hovering just out of sight. 

“It’s big.” He remarked, Anathema looked up.

“What?”

“The… ghost? Spirit? It’s big.” 

Anathema laid the book down—still open—on the small stool. “You can sense it?”

Adam shrugged, “Yeah. Bigger than Uncle Zira. Much bigger.”

Aziraphale winced at the nickname 9 and Anathema arched an eyebrow.

“Bigger than Gabriel?” She asked and Crowley’s eyebrows arched as well.

“The stupid angel bloke who tried to convince me to restart the Apocalypse? The American one?” Adam asked, thinking back and trying to envision the purple-eyed idiot that had tried so patronisingly to restart the Apocalypse. Crowley nodded and Adam frowned as he grazed his attention over the angel again, “Yeah, this one’s  _ much _ bigger than him. But… not really  _ there _ , not like Gabriel. More muted.” 

Anathema frowned, “Is it in him right now?”

“Yeah.” Adam tried not to look at Crowley, who had returned to Aziraphale’s side, unable to cross the salt line. The Antichrist wondered if Anathema had placed the salt line there not to keep whatever it was with Aziraphale in, but to prevent Crowley from trapping himself in the circle.

“Right, lets get on with it.” Anathema picked the book back up. She dug a medallion from her pocket and looked to Aziraphale. “You ready?”

The angel paused, took a deep breath, and nodded, sitting up straighter. Adam wondered if he could even stand up.

Anathema started chanting in Latin. Adam stood behind her with Dog hunched around his heels and Crowley behind him. He didn’t recognise a thing she was saying but it seemed to have an effect on everything else. The salt began to glow a deep red and the shapes drawn on the wood started spinning. Aziraphale sat in the circle, unaffected, smiling a little in encouragement. Adam realised the smile was for Crowley who was considerably paler than he had been before as Anathema continued chanting.

The chalk began to smoke, and the drawn signs spun faster. Aziraphale looked around him in confusion and Adam watched as he was engulfed in the thickening black clouds. Anathema gripped the medallion tighter and in the hellish glow of the salt Adam saw it was inscribed with similar runes to the holding circle.

Thunder crashed overhead and when Adam looked out the window he saw the sky, perfectly blue only five minutes before, was now host to a massive storm. Rain began to lash down in torrents and Dog barked at a loud crack of thunder. When he glanced back to the circle Aziraphale was no longer passively sitting. 

Instead the angel was gripping his head with an incredibly pained expression on his face. Tears of gold were falling down his cheeks and Adam watched, completely enraptured, as Aziraphale opened his mouth to scream.

Not a sound came out. The only sounds were Anathema’s ceaseless chanting and Dog’s whining. Even Crowley was silent, staring at Aziraphale with an expression Adam could only describe as the deepest unhappiness he had ever seen.

Aziraphale suddenly closed his mouth, stopped clutching his head, and looked straight at Crowley.

His eyes were a brilliant gold. 

The colour completely filled his eyes, leaving no whites and no pupil, just a blank golden ocean. Aziraphale cocked his head to the side slightly, in apparent puzzlement. The thunder outside quietened, even Anathema had stopped chanting.

Aziraphale opened his mouth and spoke with a strangely feminine voice. It sounded surprised, puzzled, and slightly hopeful.

_ “ Raphael? ” _

Then the cottage exploded.

* * *

_ 1 _ _ Much to Newt’s obvious relief. _

_ 2 _ _ Much to Newt’s obvious dismay. _

_ 3 _ _ Courtesy of the river nearby swelling with the heavy rainfall of the previous night and their instinctual desire to go swimming; a desire many children get erratically and often never at the best of times. _

_ 4 _ _ The Them and Adam had decided they were a couple after three days of observation. Typical really, that they could see how lovey-dovey the two were together but the celestials themselves couldn’t. _

_ 5 _ _ And one small, yapping still-slightly-hellish terrier. _

_ 6 _ _ He had even promised Adam that, when he was older, he’d let him drive the Bentley. Admittedly Crowley was a bit drunk at the time. _

_ 7 _ _ Although whenever Mr. R. P. Tyler was involved Crowley was usually the one to lead the charge; with Aziraphale having to tidy up the considerably disastrous mess left behind. The irritating old sod never knew what hit him. _

_ 8 _ _ Incidentally, the retired jezebel and witchfinder couple had visited the Them a few weeks earlier with belated birthday presents. The two were very happily entrenched in a little cottage just north of London and Aziraphale occasionally chattered to Madame Tracy over the phone. _

_ 9 _ _ Historically any shortening of the angel’s given name was hated unequivocally: these include Zira, Az, Ezra, Ziraphale, and Azira. The only nickname Aziraphale has ever tolerated was ‘angel’ and this only when it came from Crowley. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for cliffhangers! A writer's best friend.
> 
> Tomorrow, an interlude with Heaven and Hell and that murder mystery we left a few chapters ago.  
> As always kudos and comments are very welcome and much appreciated :)


	7. Growing Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we leave our boys in their current predicament to go have a gander at the happenings in Heaven and Hell.  
> Oh, and Gabriel has Death's number.

Gabriel sat at his desk in Heaven and fumed silently.

Twenty-four angels. Twenty-four angels  _ dead _ , their murderer still at large, and the means of their demise still unknown 1 . Their pictures littered his desk. Angels lay on their backs, staring up blankly through eyes long gone glassy. The plan he and Beelzebub had come up with had failed to save their agents and had instead raised questions as to why the angels and demons were found so close to one another. Everything had gone wrong.

Gabriel was starting to get a headache.

Usually the perfectly pristine white of Heaven was enough to calm him down, that or the Sound of Music, but right now nothing was helping. He found himself wishing that Beelzebub were there and he was, at first, naturally disgusted with the thought.

The Lord of the Flies had no place in Heaven let alone in the office of the head Archangel. The more he thought about it, however, the more agreeable the thought became. Beelzebub was currently having the same problems as him. They were under as much if not more pressure than he was to sort this out so he could easily sympathise with them and they with him. 

And they  _ listened _ .

As much as he loved his older sister, Michael wasn’t exactly one for listening. Uriel was much too busy with trying to calm down the Cherubim and Seraphim warriors who’d been preparing so diligently for the war that they were rather ill suited for an unsteady peace. Sarathiel and Ananiel, ever the pair, were trying to restore some semblance of order with the secretary angels who had… well slacked off really. Believing the end to be nigh they had deigned to hide out in the administration building with a truly impressive pile of pilfered human video games. It had taken three days to find them and by that point Gabriel’s brothers had been thoroughly put out by the whole affair and were still rather tetchy.

Zadkiel was off with Michael someplace; Gabriel wasn’t sure what they were doing but as Michael had been in a foul mood ever since the failed Apocalypse Gabriel hazarded a guess that she was going to vent her frustration on some poor Seraphim. Zadkiel was an excellent healer; whomever Michael chose would be alright in a few days.

Lucifer was, of course, unavailable and Raphael was dead.

No, best not to think about those two.

Even if he’d had the full undivided attention of all his siblings, he knew it wouldn’t have helped him any. They already knew what was happening, they were going to convene soon to discuss it before hopefully bringing the matter before the Metatron, but none of them had the insight Beelzebub had. 

The demon Prince was unique in their ability to annoy Gabriel into intuition. Arguments with them in their meetings had led to sudden solutions to problems unrelated but nonetheless irritating. 

What kind of Archangel was he that he sought reassurance from a demon rather than his own kin?

One rather like Aziraphale, he supposed bitterly.

His melancholy did nothing to stop the clock from hitting the meeting’s appointed hour. 

Gabriel, fourth eldest of all Archangels and current leader of the Heavenly Host, groaned aloud and for the first time in his existence was unhappy at the prospect of leaving his office for a meeting. The world truly had spun off its axis.

Still he couldn’t hide in here forever, so the Archangel stood, smoothed the worry from his face, and marched out the door. Any angel he encountered gave a small bow of respect and moved out of his way. He idly wondered if this was the reaction Beelzebub got from their fellow demons and then was startled to find himself wondering if those demons did it out of respect or fear. He hoped it wasn’t fear, Beelzebub was his equal, they deserved respect.

Before he entered the private conference hall Gabriel shook his head. Where in the name of the Almighty had  _ that _ thought come from? He endeavoured to forget about it and instead entered the hall.

Zadkiel glanced up from the folder he had been perusing and smiled at him.

“Gabriel! Just in time.” 

Gabriel smiled at his younger brother, “Zadkiel, I hope Michael hasn’t run you off your feet?”

Zadkiel chuckled, “Our sister has satisfied herself with training dummies for the time being. Much to the Seraphim’s relief, I imagine.”

“They were almost celebrating it, brother.” Came the voice of the pair’s younger sister, Uriel, as she walked in. She looked slightly haggard but really no worse for wear.

“Behaving better than admin was at any rate,” said Sarathiel, entering from a different door, his white hair tied in a braid down his back. Ananiel just behind him, black hair done up the same way.

“Yes, I heard. You did find them all, didn’t you?” Gabriel asked and Ananiel sighed wearily.

“We scoured every inch. As far as we know we found them all.”

The conversation continued in much the same way for the next half hour as the siblings waited for Michael. She was very late.

Eventually the second eldest Archangel arrived.

“Michael, where in the Almighty’s name have you been?” Uriel asked, eyeing the other Archangel’s rumpled suit and sour expression.  


“Sandalphon is dead.”

Deafening silence reigned in the hall as the gathering absorbed this news. Gabriel felt like he had been punched in the gut. Sandalphon dead? That was… impossible. It had to be. The Seraph was much too crafty to be caught unawares on Earth.

“You… are you sure of this?” He asked, dreading her answer.

Stormy grey eyes turned to him, filled with what Gabriel realised was a kind of determined sorrow, “I saw the body myself. He is gone.” 

Gabriel settled heavily into a chair he wasn’t aware of summoning. This ordeal had, for the most part, been a nuisance. Some part of him, some hidden part, was in wretched agony over the murders and that part was easily ignored but this… this hit far too close to home. Sandalphon was… had been one of his closest confidants; the Seraph had even been present at Aziraphale’s Trial. 

He was dimly aware of Zadkiel placing a comforting arm around him.

Uriel was incredulous, “Murdering a Seraph… Are we sure this beast is not of the Opposition?”

Gabriel shook his head, jumping on the opportunity to change the subject, “They are suffering the same losses we are. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn they have also lost a highly placed demon to match us.”

“More likely this is some ploy to whittle down our numbers.” Michael spat, her sorrow melting into fury in a heartbeat and the headache forming behind Gabriel’s brow was intensifying with every second of exposure.

“No, Michael, it isn’t. What could they possibly hope to gain from murdering their own? We both are falling behind on collecting souls.” He was aware of how strained he sounded but he attributed his desperate tone to his mounting migraine. Michael glared.

“We know you’ve been meeting with their… representative, Gabriel. How can you be sure they tell the truth?”

Gabriel winced under the scrutiny and massaged his temple to ease the headache. The use of a miracle failed to conquer it and succeeded only in making the migraine slightly less excruciating. “They are telling the truth, Michael. I would know if they lied.”

Michael didn’t look terribly convinced and Gabriel knew she was thinking of Aziraphale. Was he ever going to live that embarrassment down? 

“Even if we take what the Opposition says at face value,” she said, just barely suppressing a sneer, “We are still no closer to discovering the murderer and avenging the deaths of our fellow angels.” 

Michael’s fury was almost palpable by now. Gabriel supposed he should be angry as well, he had been earlier, but the news of Sandalphon’s death was like someone had punched a hole in his chest and wrenched his lungs out. 

He felt numb. It was reminiscent of how he had felt after the Fall when he had been deprived of not one but two brothers and a significant portion of his friends. That had been when that small part of him had hardened over. He had attributed it to the Fall and the subsequent shockwaves of grief but had since wondered if the cause weren’t something deeper. The time before the Fall was hazy and great portions were fogged over completely. There was someone… someone important who could have helped his grief but had vanished. Had they Fallen too? Or was the stress of cocking up a 6000-year-old prophecy combined with the subsequent murders of nearly thirty angels including his friend just driving him insane?

Abruptly he realised Uriel was speaking.

“Well we have to do  _ something _ . If these murders are not demonic then this is a new entity to contend with.”

Sarathiel stroked his chin thoughtfully, “Could it be Azrael?”

Zadkiel shook his head, “Death does not wantonly kill immortals. If he is involved it is merely because of his duty. I doubt he knows who the murderer is.”

“I agree,” said Ananiel, “If this entity is powerful enough to murder so many immortals, we must assume they are smart enough to avoid Azrael. But I believe it may be beneficial if we spoke with him anyway.”

The group unanimously agreed. Gabriel was glad to have a plan, any plan, so he agreed without hesitation. Summoning Azrael was a mite bit harder than one would think, however, so the next hour was spent debating how to do it. There were many ways to summon him, but most were rather… fatal.

And reasonably none of the Archangels were particularly keen on dying. Most people weren’t after all. 

So, they decided on using their personal line to the angel of death 2 . This meant someone had to use it which began an entirely different hours’ worth of debate over who it would be. And near the end of this one Gabriel’s headache was so bad Zadkiel was pressing his tan hands to his brother's forehead in a vain attempt to alleviate the pain through Heavenly healing.

Feeling far too close to Death already, Gabriel abruptly stood and marched over to the conspicuously black phone on the white wall, picked it up and pressed the only button it had. His siblings fell silent mid-argument and hurriedly clustered around him as the phone rang. 

Typically it almost timed out and Gabriel was wondering if Death had a voicemail 3 when a flat, cold voice interrupted his musings.

“YES?”

“Ah, Azrael?” Gabriel mentally kicked himself 4 which didn’t help the migraine, “Yes we were just wondering if you’d encountered the murderer.”

“MURDERER? I’VE SEEN A LOT OF MURDERERS. COMES WITH THE JOB.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow and looked at the equally confused faces of his siblings, “…The murderer who’s been killing angels and demons? There’s been quite a few. More than forty, total.”

There was a rather worrying pause.

“I HAVE NOT COLLECTED ANY ANGELIC OR DEMONIC SOULS IN THOUSANDS OF YEARS, GABRIEL.”

“Oh.”

“ERR…ARE YOU SURE THEY ARE DEAD?”

Gabriel nearly scoffed and then remembered who he was talking to and instead nervously coughed, “Fairly sure. No discorporated angels have appeared and… and Sandalphon… The Seraph Sandalphon’s body was just discovered.”

“OH.”

Gabriel waited for Azrael to continue and desperately tried not to think about Sandalphon.

“IT APPEARS I AM BEING BYPASSED, THEN,” The angel of death finally said, his emotionless voice somehow sounding thoughtful.  


“...What?” 

“SOMEONE DIRECTLY INTERCEPTED THE SOULS BEFORE I WAS ALERTED. THE VICTIMS BEING CELESTIAL MEANS I HAVE NO FORESIGHT AS TO THEIR TIME OF DEATH SO IT IS POSSIBLE, HOWEVER UNLIKELY, THAT SOMEONE IS STEALING SOULS BEFORE I KNOW THEY ARE MEANT TO BE COLLECTED.”

Gabriel swallowed, attempting to dislodge the sudden lump in his throat. “Someone is stealing souls?”

“THE EVIDENCE APPEARS TO SUPPORT IT. I SEE NO OTHER REASON WHY I WOULD NOT KNOW OF THEIR DEATHS UNLESS YOUR INFORMATION IS AT FAULT?”

Gabriel thought back to the pictures still strewn on his desk and took a slightly shaky breath, “No, we are very sure our information is accurate.”

“THEN IT APPEARS OUR MURDERER IS STEALING SOULS.”

“Apparently so.” There was another pause.

“I CANNOT HELP DIRECTLY IN THIS MATTER, THERE ARE FAR TOO MANY MORTAL SOULS REQUIRING MY ATTENTION, BUT I SHALL ENDEAVOUR TO KEEP AN EYE OUT FOR ANYMORE CELESTIAL DEATHS. THANK YOU FOR BRINGING THIS TO MY ATTENTION.”

“I… you’re welcome, Azrael.” Gabriel moved to hang the phone up.

“GABRIEL?”

“Yes?”

“I WOULD BRING THIS TO THE METATRON’S ATTENTION. TELL HIM I SENT YOU.”

“I will, thank you.” Gabriel hung up the phone and then nearly collapsed. Zadkiel caught him and Gabriel felt heavenly energies pulse from his brother, restoring his corporation and spirit to full health. Even a short chat with Death was physically draining; at least his headache was milder.

“Well we’re assured time with the Metatron, that’s a plus,” Said Ananiel who helped Gabriel to his feet.

“To tell him what? That someone’s stealing divine and demonic souls and we don’t even know who they are?” Scoffed Michael—her earlier fury still present, but a little cooler after the literal brush with Death 5 .

Sarathiel shrugged, “There isn’t much else to tell. The Metatron has a direct link to the Almighty, he should be able to help, give advice at least.”

With that conversation over with, the Archangels resolved to go to the Metatron with their pittance of information. Gabriel was being supported by Zadkiel, the headache still very much present, and as they walked, the head Archangel wondered what Beelzebub was doing. He’d have quite a lot to tell them at their next meeting, he could almost hear their irritated buzzing now. 

He forgot to feel revolted at the fond smile it brought to his face.

***

As it happened Beelzebub was not having a much better time than Gabriel.

Hell, crowded as ever, parted before their fury and if any demon was unfortunate enough to not get out of the way in time, they soon found themselves flung out of the way instead.

Beelzebub may be small compared to the other Princes of Hell, but they were Satan’s right-hand demon for a reason. Let’s see Asmodeus shove his way through this crowd. Prick wouldn’t get three feet before his arms got tired. 

The thought of their fellow Princes embarrassing themselves in front of Hell’s Legions brought a tight smile to their pockmarked face as they continued to the Council Chamber. Dagon followed closely behind.

“My Lord, should I fetch Hastur and Ligur? They have quite a lot of experience on Earth-”

“No, Dagon. Leave them be. They zzztill have a day off, it can wait.” Dagon nodded, a knowing smile on their face. Beelzebub let it be. Hell was awful enough; they couldn’t begrudge the Lord of the Files a smile every so often.

The smile vanished quickly enough on its own when they reached the Council Chamber. Dagon wasn’t part of the Dark Council but her skills in bureaucracy had given her enough credit that she was more often than not invited to tag along with Beelzebub during important meetings.

Beelzebub was one of the seven Princes of Hell, namely: Asmodeus, Mammon, Leviathan, Belphegor, Berith, and Astaroth 6 . They hated these meetings with a burning passion 7 and they knew that the other Princes loved them. This was why they usually avoided their equals like the plague when they weren’t stuck with them in the blasted meetings.

This time the meeting wasn’t about failing quotas or the general uselessness of the Traitor Crowley’s replacements. This time it was serious.

One of Hastur’s fellow Dukes, Abaddon, had been slain.

The atmosphere of the council chamber was rather heated even without the council being made aware of the day’s topic. Which wasn’t particularly new.

Whilst they waited for Mammon and Belphegor to finish squabbling over some imagined insult, they found themselves thinking of Gabriel. One look from that idiot and the Princes would fall so silent a pin dropping would sound like shattering glass. But Gabriel wasn’t here, much to their strange disappointment, so they settled with waiting out the argument. 

Berith and Astaroth looked about as fed up as Beelzebub was though the way Astaroth was scratching grooves into the stone table was rather telling as to the impatience simmering behind her placid mask. Asmodeus appeared to be doodling on his notepad, ignoring everyone else, even as Leviathan peered over his shoulder with a look of extreme bemusement—Beelzebub made a mental note to try and steal the notepad at a later date.

Possibly for blackmail. Mostly just for the hell of pissing him off.

Eventually the two squabbling Princes shut up and the meeting commenced with the usual ‘ _ Hail Satan’  _ greeting.

“Well, Beelzebub?” Said Asmodeus, twining a finger in his silver hair, “Do you have news?”

Beelzebub buzzed irritably and sat down in their seat next to Berith, “Yezz, nothing good.”

Astaroth sighed and studied her nails and the considerable build-up of stone beneath them, “Your plan did not work?”

They shook their head and the fly atop it buzzed feebly, “No, it hazzz not. Abaddon izzz zzzlain.”

This sparked another round of  discursive  arguing and Beelzebub sensed anger and wounded pride in the emotional turmoil. They glanced at Dagon standing beside them. The demon looked faintly petrified and Beelzebub couldn’t blame her. If they were anything less than a Prince they assumed they’d be terrified of the sudden spike of violent emotion, too.

Luckily, they weren’t, so they just sighed and waited for this new outraged debate to simmer down. 

It did, after an hour.

Mammon sighed and rubbed his blood red eyes, “So, what do we do about this?”

Leviathan tapped their claws on the hard tabletop and scowled, their seafoam blue eyes darkening with rage, “Thiss mussst be the work of the Oppossssition. They determine to desssstroy uss one by one!”

“No,” Said Beelzebub, thinking back to theirs’ and Gabriel’s last meeting, “No it izzz not them.”

Berith turned to them, narrowing their shiny black eyes, “And just how are you so sure of that?”

Beelzebub narrowed their own eyes and they felt the stubs of their wings twitch, trying to open out into an intimidating display. Impossible considering they weren’t there and hadn’t been for six thousand years give or take a few centuries.

“That’zz  _ nothing _ you need concern yourzzelf with, Berith.” They clenched their petite hands and Berith paled.

“Very well.”

Belphegor smirked at his colleague’s discomfort and leaned forward, “Something is changing,” He muttered, his voice thick with slime, “There is a tenseness to the air I have not felt for a long, long time. Perhaps this beast means to destroy us all and claim the world as its own.”

Beelzebub scoffed openly, “You believe  **She** would dezzztroy her preciouzzz angelzzz?”

The table winced at the mere allusion to the Almighty, but Beelzebub no longer feared it. Gabriel didn’t, why should they?

“It makezzz no zzzenzze. No thizzz threat izzz not part of the Plan.”

The Princes considered this for a moment and Beelzebub idly wondered about Gabriel. They wondered how his meeting with the other Archangels was going. Probably terribly, knowing him. They wiped the small smile from their face before the others could notice and silently cursed themselves for the slip up.

Leviathan steepled their claws and looked thoughtfully at the Council Chamber’s floor, the scales on the back of their hands glinting a dull aquamarine, “Hasss anyone thought to inform our Masster?”

Asmodeus nearly growled, his yellow cat’s eyes narrowing into fine slits, “Of course we have. Do you wish to volunteer yourself for the task?”

Leviathan grimaced, “No.”

If there was one thing the Princes of Hell could agree on, it was their reluctance to go near the Devil with bad news. Beelzebub themselves had nearly been incinerated when they had been forced to inform the Prince of Darkness about his spawn’s unwillingness to cooperate during Armageddon. And that was comparatively good news to what was rapidly growing into a  _ Problem _ .

“So, for Lilith’s sake, what do we do?” Mammon repeated.

Astaroth hissed, “We have nothing to go on. If we do not act, we will lose more of our number to this murderer.”

Beelzebub sighed, “I have a… contact. I’m meeting them in a few hourzzz. Perhapzzz they will have information for uzzz by then.”

Asmodeus raised a silver brow, “A contact?”

Beelzebub glared, “Yezzz. A contact. And zzzo far they have proved themzzzelvezzz more uzzeful than all the demonzzz in Hell put together.”

Mammon gave them a thoughtful once over, “I believe we have wasted enough of your time, Beelzebub, and if you leave to procure evidence to help this matter then, by all means, you may go.”

Beelzebub sat up so fast they almost knocked into Dagon. They offered only a curt nod to the rest of the Dark Council before departing with some relief to the crowded corridors of Hell.

“You… You have a contact, my Lord?” Asked Dagon, as they once more waded through the grumbling crowd. Beelzebub noticed she had dug her clawed hands into her clipboard and had left splintering grooves. The feeling of outrage must have been stronger than they had thought.

“Yezz.”

Demons scurried out of their way as they marched forward, Dagon struggling to keep up. Their office was a welcome sight despite the leaking pipes and damp smell. They sank into their throne-like chair gratefully and massaged their temples.

“My Lord… who is your contact? If I may ask, of course.” Dagon was loyal, near fanatically so like Hastur or Ligur. It was a supremely rare trait to find in a demon and Beelzebub knew better than to reward loyalty with lies and deception. They were no Lucifer.

“Gabriel.”

Dagon’s eyes widened in surprise and Beelzebub felt a small smile grow on their face once more.

“T-The Archangel?” She stammered.

Beelzebub rolled their eyes, “Do you know of any other important beingzz called Gabriel?”

“Ah… no.” She paused and Beelzebub sighed.

“What, Dagon?”

“When… When are you going to meet him next?” Dagon was clenching her clipboard again, Beelzebub wished they could tell her she wasn’t in any danger for a simple question. In truth it was they who were in the wrong, as it were, having repeated contact with the Opposition. But they could never be sure when one of their fellow Princes would be listening and they didn’t want Dagon to get any sort of…  _ special attention _ .

“He’ll contact me.” Gabriel had, without fail, always contacted them an hour before the meeting was due and Beelzebub caught themselves staring at the drawer that contained the hellish phone and felt a tremor of faint disgust for willing it to ring.

***

The explosion at Jasmine cottage went largely unnoticed by both Heavenly and Hellish forces except for a few sudden and inexplicable migraines such as the one Gabriel is currently suffering. 

It was honestly typical of the modern day that such a pivotal moment in history was ignored. Unless you happened to be in the immediate vicinity, of course.

* * *

_ 1 _ _ The possibility of hellfire having been used had been brought up and then discarded, if not because Gabriel (somehow) held Beelzebub to their promise that Hell was innocent in this, then because hellfire tended to leave little but a charred circle in place of a body and they had yet to find even a tiny friction burn on any of the discarded corporations. _

_ 2 _ _ None of them knew quite how they had come to possess this celestial speed-dial, but it was there, nonetheless. And because it was a direct line to Death of course they were all usually much too terrified to even go near it, but you know what they say about desperate times. _

_ 3 _ _ His favourites so far were ‘Hello this is Azrael, angel of Death, if I don’t catch up with you I’ll see you eventually’ and ‘This is Death, unless you’re an angel I think you have the wrong number’. _

_ 4 _ _ Who else would answer Death’s phone? The Easter bunny? _

_ 5 _ _ Even if it was more like a brush with Death’s-slightly-tinny-voice-over-a-phone but such differences mattered little when it came to Azrael. _

_ 6 _ _ No relation to Nanny Ashtoreth according to Crowley, although the coincidence had made him giggle. _

_ 7 _ _ Literally. They had once set fire to a stack of paperwork by accident. Luckily a pipe had burst at exactly the right moment to douse the flames. The first few pages had been unrecoverable, but the rest had been fine, if a bit stained, much to Dagon’s relief. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I absolutely adore these two idiots as a couple. They're even worse at denying they like each other than Aziraphale and Crowley.
> 
> I also loved writing Azrael's dialogue and the thought that Death himself just paused in the middle of reaping a soul to take a call had me in stitches.
> 
> Anyway, stay tuned for tomorrow's chapter where we reunite with Aziraphale to discover what exactly in the fuck is going on.  
> As always kudos and comments are very welcome and much appreciated :)


	8. Familiar Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale returns to a familiar place and meets a less familiar face.

Aziraphale opened his eyes and was instantly puzzled.

He stood atop the Eastern wall of Eden where, roughly six thousand years ago, he had met the demon known then as Crawley and had watched the newly freed Adam and Eve struggle to survive outside of the Garden’s protection. He was even wearing the same white robes of that distant time when he could have sworn, not a minute earlier, that he had been wearing a jumper.

But this must be a dream.

Eden no longer existed.

“Hello Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale yelped in surprise. The figure standing by his left should have been Crowley as he had been six thousand years ago—shoulder-length flaming red hair, dressed in ragged black robes, and looking very handsome and not at all demonic—instead a woman stood in his place.

No.

Not a woman.

For she couldn’t possibly be human.

She looked human enough in figure and she even wore a simple white dress trimmed delicately with gold and blue thread. But the dress was stretched over pale skin that, here and there, glittered with the familiar fiery gold of divine Grace. 

A cascade of chocolate brown curls flowed nearly to her waist and was threaded through with red and white carnations and across her brow she wore a crown of pink ones. And whilst flowers woven into hair weren't strictly speaking unusual, what was unusual was for those flowers to be actively blooming, with fresh leaves appearing amongst the strands even as Aziraphale watched.

The biggest giveaway for her inhuman nature were her eyes. Her irises were a deep piercing gold ringed with strands of sapphire, azure, and cobalt blue.

She smiled and Aziraphale found himself smiling back on reflex.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” She asked, sounding wistful and slightly sad.

Aziraphale shook his head and cleared his throat, “No. I’m sorry, I don’t.”

Her smile softened and the skin around her eyes crinkled in that oh-so-human way, “Don’t be sorry, Aziraphale, you aren’t at fault.”

They stood together in silence atop the walls of Eden for a while longer. Aziraphale could hear the distant sound of birdsong somewhere in the canopies behind him and she seemed to notice it too, if her fond smile was anything to go by. The angel took the time without conversation to study his erstwhile companion, not physically, but emotionally.

She felt like no other being he had ever encountered.

She pulsed with love in a steady tempo, but this was not love as Aziraphale experienced it himself. Her love was not heavenly; not entirely innocent and selfless directed only outwards and to the Almighty. But neither was it hellish; not entirely twisted inwards into hatred or lust or greed.

It didn’t even bear much resemblance to the dichotomy of human souls. Many humans were typically ‘grey’ when it came to their emotions but no human he knew had ever possessed such starkly different and yet intimately similar feelings all at once. He was sure if they did, they’d explode or do something equally nasty 1 .

To be able to contain those feelings placed her in a class all her own.

As if she could sense his scrutiny 2 the woman turned to face him again.

“You have questions, I assume?” She asked, cheerfully.

“I…” Aziraphale hesitated, a thousand questions burned upon his tongue and yet he could not voice a single one. She laughed warmly.

“I do not bite, my dear, you may ask me whatever you like.”

Aziraphale paused for a moment before asking, “Why Eden?”

If the question surprised her, she didn’t show it, smiling thoughtfully instead.

“I never saw this place completed and I wished to know what it had looked like.” She turned away from the view of the desert and faced the evergreen Garden. Her smile was soft and almost child-like with wonder and several more white carnations bloomed amidst her curls, “It’s also a rather dear memory of yours so it wasn’t too difficult to form this place as a facsimile.”

“You made all this?” Aziraphale asked, valiantly attempting to keep his voice from squeaking with surprise.

She hummed in thought as if trying to come up with a way to explain it.

“In a way I suppose I did. On the metaphysical plane anyway. It was your memory that defined it and your nostalgic love for it that brought it to my attention in the first place.”

Aziraphale furrowed his brows, “What are you exactly?”

She smiled beatifically, “A most appropriate question, Aziraphale, I’m glad to see you haven’t changed in my absence. However,” She wrung her hands in an immaculate parody of Aziraphale’s own reaction to stress, “It’s a rather difficult question to answer, if truth be told.”

She frowned.

“I suppose you have guessed I am no angel?”

“Nor are you a demon.” Aziraphale added. 

She looked momentarily perplexed before a sudden clarity bloomed on her lovely face as some epiphany hit.

“So that’s what he meant...” She murmured.

Aziraphale had the feeling he had missed something.

“Sorry?”

She shook her head, “Nothing, my dear, just a bad memory.” She composed herself once more and smiled, “I am neither of Heaven nor of Hell. I am a being composed in my entirety of love and all the emotions inherent within. I am, in essence, love incarnate.”

Aziraphale was stunned, “You’re love? Love is a person?”

Her smile turned bitter, “I was called Love. A long time ago. I suppose it still is my name, but few would remember me by it. You may call me Eros.”

Aziraphale nodded and offered a small smile.

“Can I ask something else?” 

Eros nodded, picking a white carnation from her hair.

“Why me?” Aziraphale was honestly very confused. Eros said that she had known him, but the angel was certain he would have remembered her. One did not tend to forget fellow immortals who were of neither side and apparently ridiculously powerful. But he was certain she wasn’t lying, if this was indeed his own mind or a manifestation of it prompted by her, he would have sensed any duplicity by now. 

Eros’ grin was reminiscent of Crowley’s, he’d noticed.

“I’m not really sure, my dear. I have been… asleep, dreaming almost, for centuries upon centuries and only recently have I awoken. My spirit began to wander from my body and latched itself onto the only living thing whose love could contain me and that happened to be you. Your… friend? Your human friend woke me up properly with that ritual.”

Aziraphale sighed, “It was meant to be an exorcism. We thought you were dangerous.”

Eros looked faintly surprised, “Did I do something untoward?”

“I was fainting and having horrible dreams, it looked like a malignant possession.” 

“Oh.” Eros had the grace to look embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Aziraphale. I never meant to bring you to any harm.”

“You should apologise to Crowley; he was the one taking such good care of me and worrying himself near to death.” He realised his voice had gone rather soft as he thought of Crowley and he was momentarily embarrassed at the slip-up in front of what was, to him, a complete stranger.

“Crowley?” Eros looked pensive, “You mean Raphael?”

Aziraphale spluttered, “No. Crowley. Raphael died in the War before the Fall.”

Surely she didn’t mean to suggest-?

Eros blinked then shrugged, “Oh, I must have mistaken your friend for him. Crowley bears a strong resemblance.” 

Aziraphale sighed in relief, “You knew Raphael?”

Eros’ smile brightened, she was good at smiling- it suited her, “Oh yes, I knew all the Archangels, but I liked him the most. My Raphael who made the stars.” Her eyes took on a distant quality, those startling irises fogging over with memory. What astonished Aziraphale was that he  _ felt  _ it. He felt her adoration of that distant angel as if he was experiencing the memory himself. 

“He liked to play pranks, as I recall. I helped him, more often than I should have I suppose, but my Sister and I could never resist him.”

Aziraphale perked up, “You have a sister?”

Eros nodded, “I have four. Or had. It has been quite some time since I last saw them.”

“Any brothers?”

“Five. My youngest Brother always helped Raphael hide from Gabriel and the others whenever a prank went wrong. I remember once,” She said, chuckling softly, “Raphael messed up one of Uriel’s moons, hit it with a meteor and smashed a great dip into it. She was furious until  **She** said that  **She** liked it better that way. Uriel tried to get him back by forcing two of his stars to encircle one another but  **She** said  **She** liked that too. Raphael couldn’t stop laughing.”

The flowers in Eros’ hair were blossoming even more rapidly and Aziraphale watched in utter fascination as a few new buds burst open, seemingly reacting to her mood. The idea that Eros had siblings as powerful as her was slightly disconcerting 3 but Aziraphale ignored it in favour of listening to Eros talk about the Archangels in a time where Aziraphale himself hadn’t and wouldn’t exist for aeons yet.

She spoke of the seven like a proud mother or an older sister: trying not to giggle when she recounted a feud between Zadkiel and Michael which had ended with the both of them coated in stardust and sneezing hurricanes; laughing when she remembered some old joke between her and Raphael; smiling brightly when she mentioned finding Gabriel fast asleep and nestled in a nebulae he had been ‘working on’ for the last fifty years. It was entrancing. It told Aziraphale nothing, obviously, just as a proud parent recounts precious stories of their children, it tells you nothing important; but Aziraphale had always been a chatty sort of person and finding someone else so willing to just  _ talk _ and fill the silence with amusing anecdotes and half-remembered jokes was a strange sort of catharsis. He was beginning to understand why Crowley had tolerated his wittering for so long- it was nice to hear someone else talk.

An eventual lull in the stream of fond memories found Aziraphale curious. Eros had mentioned Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, Uriel, Zadkiel, Ananiel, and Sarathiel but had made no mention of the eighth and oldest Archangel, and arguably the most famous, or infamous depending on how you looked at it.

“Eros?” He asked.

“Yes, Aziraphale?”

“You haven’t mentioned Lucifer in your stories.” Eros flinched at the name and Aziraphale felt, for the barest moment, the most intense agony he had ever endured. It was gone just as fast and Aziraphale gasped. Eros looked stricken and placed a steadying hand on his arm.

“I apologise, my friend.” She whispered.

A sudden burst of thunder caught both of their attention and the first storm clouds, as Aziraphale remembered them, rolled towards Eden. Six thousand years ago both demon and angel had stared in wonder as the first drops of water fell from the sky. Aziraphale remembered extending his left wing—offering shelter—and he remembered Crowley, then Crawley, tentatively edging his way under the white feathers. It was a fond and much beloved memory. It had been the first time either of them had shown affection for the other and Aziraphale cherished it.

Six thousand years later the roles were apparently reversed and a truly gargantuan pair of shimmering gold wings burst from Eros’ back sheltering Aziraphale—and most of the Eastern Gate—from the deluge. To his surprise a second pair of equally golden wings sprouted from just below her neck, very much like an Archangel's wings would, and endeavoured to shield her from the falling rain as well. 

Under the canopy of golden feathers Aziraphale felt a memory, one that he had recently submerged deep into his subconscious for his own sanity, emerge. These wings had been dirtied by soot in this memory, stinking sulphur had burnt the feathers and had so increased their weight that their owner hadn’t the strength to lift them. 

Eros shifted uncomfortably.

“Please, Aziraphale, not now.”

Aziraphale felt the memory recede almost of its own accord and Eros relaxed. A second roll of thunder drowned out her next words.

“What was that?” Aziraphale nearly yelled over the gathering shriek of the wind.

“I said our time’s up!” She yelled back, “We need to go back, I can’t hold time forever!”

_ “ What _ _?”_ Aziraphale shrieked.

“Time! I can’t control it like my Sister. If we don’t go back now the explosion will kill your friends!”

Aziraphale was just about to ask, rather crudely,  _ ‘What fucking explosion?’ _ when he was suddenly jerked away from Eden and the gathering storm. Eros vanished and Aziraphale opened his eyes a split-second later.

* * *

_ 1 _ _ Crowley had once deigned to show Aziraphale human horror movies. Safe to say Crowley was shunned for a good long while afterwards and the merest mention of violins had had Aziraphale running for cover. _

_ 2 _ _ Which, Aziraphale realised upon reflection, she probably could. _

_ 3 _ _ No, it was really very disconcerting but being in one’s own mind tends to tamper with one’s own emotional responses- so Aziraphale, reasonably, should have shrieked at the first appearance of Eros and endeavoured immediately to wake up, obviously he didn’t and instead decided to have a lovely chat with her about frankly trivial things. Aziraphale always preferred to chat where possible and what was a safer environment than your own head? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say we'd find out what was going on?  
> Oops.
> 
> _Next_ chapter will explain a bit more, I promise :)  
> As always kudos and comments are very welcome and much appreciated :)


	9. Revelations and Repercussions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley doesn't take to Eros well and Gabriel's headache gets worse.

Crowley was sure he was dead.

Explosions were meant to kill you; he’d heard that somewhere before.

But he was also sure you didn’t keep breathing after you died. He’d seen far too many people die for that not to be true.

The explosion itself was a blur. One minute Aziraphale sat in the circle, his beautiful blue eyes consumed by gold, the next his angel had uttered that name. That name he so despised. And  _ then _ an incredibly bright flash of light had gone off.

Crowley had  _ felt _ flame scorch his clothes, he was certain of it, and he had also heard the ear-shattering  _ boom _ . But then he’d found himself in the grass outside of the cottage, Anathema groaning next to him. When he had stumbled to his feet a cursory check revealed Adam curled around Dog in a bush and further into the neighbouring field Newt was discovered constricted into a ball; still in Star Wars pyjamas.

Crowley felt like he was on auto-pilot. His burns didn’t hurt in the least and he was without his sunglasses but none of it mattered. He had to find  _ him _ . His angel was missing. For all Crowley knew the fire currently consuming the house was hellfire and his angel had burned away into nothing; he was just about to run into the flaming home when a small, surprised, and very familiar sounding ‘Oh’ came from just behind him in the field. 

Crowley turned to see Aziraphale standing there—clutching a pink carnation, dressed in a white toga. The demon completely ignored what his angel was saying in favour of tackling him to the ground in an unbearably soppy hug.

“Don’t… Don’t ever do that again! Ever! You hear me, angel?” Crowley was aware he was babbling almost incoherently but he didn’t care. For a second, for an eternal and terrible second, he had believed Aziraphale gone.

_ Again _ .

The angel in question was hugging him back equally hard and just audibly whispering, “I won’t.”

After five minutes, the hug was starting to hurt. 

After ten, Crowley conceded it would probably be more comfortable to let Aziraphale go to stretch in the grass.

After fifteen, he finally did and let go of everything except Aziraphale’s hand which he gripped for all he was worth.

“Angel I-"  


“Crowley it’s-"  


The pair paused and Crowley smirked.

“You first, angel.”

Aziraphale, looking better than he had in days in the light of the fire and the dull light of approaching dusk, smiled, “It’s so good to see you.”

Crowley laughed, truly laughed, for what felt like the first time in years.

“It's good to see you too, angel.”

Their tender moment was, once again, ruined by a slightly crispy Anathema stumbling through the field towards them.

“Aziraphale?” She breathed, staring at him wide-eyed, “Is that you?”

Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow, “Yes?”

Anathema blinked slowly, eyeing the white toga and the angel’s face, “But you- Your eyes they… Good God did you banish it  _ by yourself _ ?”

Aziraphale sighed and Crowley looked at him askance.

“ _ Aziraphale didn’t banish me, Anathema Device _ .” 

The voice that came from Aziraphale’s mouth was most definitely  _ not _ his voice and Crowley fought the urge to leap back and hiss. Anathema looked stunned.

“How did you-?”

Aziraphale spread his hands and the voice spoke again, “ _ I  _ **_am_ ** _ in Aziraphale’s mind, Anathema. Your name is not exactly a secret. _ ” The angel nodded in agreement with the stranger’s voice, “Yes dear, she isn’t gone.”

Crowley actually did hiss this time and took a wary step back.

“ _ She? _ Angel what the absolute  _ fuck _ is going on?” The thought that that thing was still in his angel’s body, speaking with his mouth and having full access to his memories, did not at all sit well with Crowley. Aziraphale, however, smiled and it was  _ that smile _ . The one his angel used in difficult situations. The one Crowley was usually unable to resist but if this didn’t count as special circumstances, he didn’t know what the fuck did.

At this rather tense moment, Adam decided to wander over, a dazed Dog trotting at his heels.

“ _ Hello Adam _ .” Came the feminine voice and Adam stopped in his tracks, looking in vain for the woman who surely must have said it. Finding none except Anathema, Adam turned his attention to Aziraphale.

“Mnuh?” It was quite possible that the day’s events had rather overburdened the kid’s mind, Crowley thought, and as a result it had reverted back to the tried and true inarticulate mumbling to express the rather more complex idea of ‘ _ What exactly in the fuck is going on?’ _ . 

Crowley knew because it was a noise he had been and was continuing to make, albeit in his own head.

Aziraphale smiled at the boy and when he spoke Crowley was relieved to hear his angel’s voice in his own mouth 1 , “I think perhaps we should have some sort of discussion to sort this out.” A quick glance at the still-burning house and Aziraphale’s face fell, “Oh. Oh dear.”

Crowley watched as the angel seemed to have some sort of internal debate 2 and the group, aside from Aziraphale, watched in astonishment as the fire was extinguished and the house rebuilt itself until it stood as good as new; or rather, as good as it had been before.

“ _ There, that’s better. _ ” Said the voice again.

Half an hour later all six of them, including Dog, sat around the tiny coffee table in Anathema’s reassembled living room. Four mugs of tea and a single cup of coffee lay steaming on the table’s top. So far not one of them had ventured to touch their mug. All were staring at Aziraphale.

Anathema decided to break the silence.

“Right I suppose I should start with the basics,” She stared hard at Aziraphale, “What is your name?”

“ _ You may call me Eros _ .” Said the voice, cheerfully.

“Like the Greek god of love?” Asked Adam, who’s earlier confusion and apprehension had quite seamlessly slid into childish fascination.

Aziraphale smiled, “ _ Precisely _ .”

“Right,” Anathema continued, “How old are you?”

Crowley was still horrifically fascinated to watch someone else’s voice come out of Aziraphale’s mouth. Said voice seemed to consider its answer carefully.

“ _ Very old _ .” Sensing that this did not quite answer the question, the voice paused yet again, “ _ Older than Earth _ .”

“As old as Crowley?” Anathema prodded

“ _ Older _ .” The voice didn’t elaborate further but Crowley, knowing full well how impossibly ancient that made Eros, was stunned.

Anathema had produced a notepad almost as if by a miracle and was scribbling furiously into it.

“To what extent are you possessing Aziraphale?” She asked, still staring hard at the angel in question 3 .

“ _ I can only project my voice and perform a few miracles here and there. I don’t wish to overexert myself _ .” Eros answered primly, Aziraphale nodded along with her.

It was really starting to freak Crowley out that now he was calling  _ it _ by name in his head as if he was staring at two different people and not one ridiculously adorable angel and a disembodied female voice with a faint English accent 4 .

“So, you can’t control him?”

“ _ No, dear, I can’t control him _ .”

The conversation lulled as Anathema continued her attack of the notepad. Aziraphale took a delicate sip of tea in the interval, Crowley supposed being a living mic was rather dehydrating. 

Then Aziraphale glanced at the clock.

“Oh dear, Adam? What time do you have to be back home?”

“11. Why- _ oh shit _ !” Aziraphale didn’t have time to reprimand the ex-Antichrist for his language as Adam leapt to his feet and rushed out of the living room. Dog, as usual, by his heels. He stuck his head back in a moment later.

“This is  _ awesome _ , Uncle Zira. Can Auntie Eros stay?”

Anathema smiled at Adam whilst Crowley heard Aziraphale, or rather Eros, whisper, “ _ Auntie _ ?” almost to himself.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow, Adam. You go home now and tell your parents you’re late because you helped me clean up a mess or something.”

“Thanks Anathema! Bye Uncle Crowley!”

Crowley waved as the ex-Antichrist fled the house to race home and feel the wrath of the Young parents. The demon wished him luck. As soon as the kid was out of the house Anathema turned back to the ancient being in the room, or rather, the  _ new _ ancient being in the room.

“So why are you here?”

Eros paused for a good long while and Aziraphale looked faintly worried. Crowley took his hand under the table and squeezed it. He had no idea what was going through his angel’s head, but he was certain whatever it was it wasn’t exactly enjoyable. 

“ _ I… am not precisely sure. _ ” Eros said, no longer very cheerful, “ _ Everything’s rather blurry _ .”

Aziraphale looked thoughtful, “Perhaps giving you some time to think on it would help?”

“ _ Couldn’t hurt _ .”

It was, Crowley decided, exceedingly disconcerting to watch someone have a conversation with themselves. Especially so if the conversation was carried out in two different voices.

“If you need time to think about it, Eros, we can talk on this more tomorrow morning.” Anathema said, apparently unfazed by the thought of having a ridiculously ancient immortal being staying in their house whilst it decided on its reasons for possessing an angel and blowing up said house not two hours earlier.

“ _ I think that would be best, Anathema. Oh, Newt dear? Do remember to breathe _ .” 

***

Meeting the Metatron was usually a bureaucratic nightmare which was why the Archangels tended to try to sort their problems out by themselves instead of seeking his guidance. Being God’s spokesperson seemed to have gone to his… err… head; and ever since his appointment he had been perfectly happy to irritate the Archangels half-mad with administrative nonsense. So much so that Gabriel had begun to understand why the administration department had fled their jobs at the merest hint of an excuse.

After all, it had been the start of the Apocalypse. Paperwork was sort of redundant at that point.

But this technical horror show was avoided when Michael practically snarled to the secretary that Death had sent them and Selaphiel 5 immediately buzzed them through whilst trying very valiantly to look like the wall behind him.

Gabriel—headache simmered down to a more manageable dull ache—marched into the audience chamber with his siblings and waited. It didn’t take too long for the wizened old head to appear and he was clearly irritated.

“What is it?” He snapped, clearly not in the mood for pleasantries. Luckily, neither was Michael.

“Death sent us, so shut up and listen!” 

And the Metatron did, clearly fuming over Michael’s lack of decorum but he listened, nonetheless. When she finished, barely five minutes later, Gabriel realised they really  _ didn’t _ have much by the way of clues and he felt faintly embarrassed.

The Metatron narrowed his eyes.

“Angels are being murdered?” He asked slowly, as if the very concept was a struggle for his mind to process.  


Michael groaned, “ _ Yes! _ That’s what I just said!”

Gabriel wondered if anybody had dared speak to the Metatron that way before. He was sure Lucifer had, on occasion, slipped up and muttered a curse in the Metatron’s presence but even the most rebellious soul in all of Heaven had never dared to yell at the old man like he was hard of hearing.

Michael must be angrier than he thought.

“What do you suggest we do?” Asked Ananiel, much more politely than his older sister. 

The Metatron scowled.

“How are we certain it is not the Opposition?”

The Archangels collectively paused and Zadkiel glanced guiltily at Gabriel, “Gabriel’s been meeting with Beelzebub.”

The Metatron’s eyebrows rocketed upwards and Gabriel felt the headache resurge with a vengeance. It was a testament to his long standing as Heaven’s head Archangel that he didn’t faint under the scrutiny.

“Is this true Gabriel?” The Metatron’s voice was thick with scepticism even though angels weren’t exactly known for lying and not one angel would dare to lie to the Metatron- least of all gentle Zadkiel. 

Gabriel suspected he was in for it.

“Yes.”

To say that the Metatron chewed him out for meeting with Beelzebub would be an understatement.

A  _ big _ understatement.

By the time the Metatron was finishing his tirade Gabriel was wondering if his head was going to explode from the pressure built up in his skull.

“You are an  _ Archangel _ , Gabriel. This conduct is completely unacceptable!” The Metatron thundered, his voice starting to get slightly hoarse from all the shouting.

Gabriel had the vague notion that the point of the visit had been missed but his ears were ringing too loudly, and his head hurt far too much for any coherent thought to form. His siblings had retreated far across the room so they wouldn’t be caught in the verbal tidal wave themselves.

Hell was much more straightforward with its torturing; racks, whips, knives, the usual plethora of ingenious devices that are used to cause pain. Heaven preferred the parental approach; yelling and forcing you to look them in the eye when they yelled at you. Gabriel was starting to feel physically ill, but the Metatron wasn’t done.

“You are one of God’s greatest angels, Gabriel, how could you have _fallen_ so low as to consort with the  _ Enemy _ ?”

Gabriel, and the other Archangels, flinched at that. A small part of him wondered if the Metatron could dole out that ultimate punishment and an even smaller part wondered what Beelzebub would think of him if he Fell. They’d probably get a commendation or something and laugh in his face.

Finally, Gabriel dared to speak, every movement of his jaw sending ricocheting sparks of pain through his head.

“So, what now?” He wasn’t entirely sure why he was being so brazen and clearly his lack of cowering was confusing for the Metatron too, as the old head’s eyes were bulging rather hideously.

“Ah yes, your little  _ problem _ , I believe your illicit conduct has just offered you up as a volunteer.” Gabriel heard Zadkiel start to protest somewhere behind him, but the Metatron shut his younger brother up with a glare. He faced Gabriel yet again.

“You, Gabriel, will go down to Earth and personally supervise  _ our _ operatives. There will be  _ no _ contact with the Opposition and you will see to it these heinous murders are solved and the perpetrator punished in the extreme.  **DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?** ”

Gabriel winced as the volume hit the perfect note to aggravate the headache. The pain combining with the shame of being scolded like some sort of child managing to make him feel utterly wretched. Realising the irate head was still awaiting an answer, Gabriel ducked his head and muttered, “Perfectly.”

With that, the Metatron disappeared, and Gabriel nearly collapsed again. And, once again, it was Zadkiel who caught him.

“I’m sorry, Gabriel. I didn’t think he would- I just-” Zadkiel was speaking far too quickly and Gabriel held up a hand to silence him.

Blinking through the pain that receded with every second his brother held him, Gabriel attempted a reassuring smile, “Not your fault. I would have been reprimanded for it anyway.”

Michael nearly growled, “He gave us  _ nothing _ ! All he did was listen and then tell you off for working with Hell  _ against _ this monster. And now you have to go down there with it!”

Ananiel helped Gabriel to his feet as Uriel tried to calm their elder sister.

Gabriel groaned and after three miracles he could finally see straight again, “Our hands are tied, Michael. I’ve been given a direct order.”

An order from the Metatron was as infallible as God’s own command and Gabriel had no intention of disobeying it or of enduring another one of those lectures. 

Michael sighed,  “Gabriel that thing could target you. It killed Sandalphon, it's entirely feasible it has the power to kill Archangels.”

Gabriel smiled and this time he could tell it was more of a grimace, “I know. I’ll be careful, Michael.”

After a quick round of condolences and goodbyes and good lucks, Gabriel hurried off to his office. He should have been heading to the armoury to pick out a sword or a dagger to take with him to Earth, but he had one last thing he needed to do.

It wasn’t  _ against _ the Metatron’s orders. Merely a technicality he could take advantage of. At least that’s what Gabriel told himself when he slid the heavenly phone from its concealed compartment in his desk and proceeded to hurriedly type Beelzebub a text message.

He wasn’t on Earth yet and this wasn’t contact with the Opposition anyway, it was only Beelzebub.

Text done and phone hidden away again, Gabriel left his office with a much lighter heart and now-fading migraine in search of a sword he could successfully hide in his suit.

* * *

_ 1 _ _ Just going to show exactly how fucked up his day had been that someone’s voice issuing from their own mouth counted as a plus. _

_ 2 _ _ And what with the thing still inside him it was entirely possible he actually was. _

_ 3 _ _ Anathema and everyone else at the table, I mean who wouldn’t? _

_ 4 _ _ Much too faint to discern exactly which English accent but Crowley was certain she wasn’t a Geordie. That would have been far too comical for such an ancient being. _

_ 5 _ _ Angel of Thursdays and rather unwilling secretary of the Metatron. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I don't much like the Metatron?  
> And the plot is _finally_ starting to move forward! Tomorrow Crowley and Gabriel both make mistakes.
> 
> As always kudos and comments are very welcome and much appreciated :)


	10. The Power of a Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley freaks out when he learns more about Eros and Gabriel encounters a stranger.

Aziraphale sat on the little garden bench in front of Jasmine Cottage and had a bit of a think.

He’d been coming out here and doing this for the past two days. Anathema had been generous enough to give them the spare room in which Crowley slept and Aziraphale read. Eros was unrelentingly inquisitive; inquiring into every anecdote and colloquialism they came across during these little reading sessions.

She had adored Shakespeare, to his great delight, and they had spent over four hours discussing the nuances of the love triangle in  _ Twelfth Night _ , and considering it was literally Love he was talking to, it made for an interesting perspective. 

Crowley was less enthused by her questions and would regularly ignore her if she asked him anything despite Aziraphale’s prompting.

“She doesn’t belong there.” Is all the demon offered as an explanation when he had snapped at Eros on the first night when she had forgotten to ask her questions internally so as not to disturb his sleep 1 .

These occasional quiet moments when Anathema didn’t need any help in the house or with Adam’s lessons, and when Crowley was off somewhere (usually sulking), were always spent in the garden where Eros claimed the abundance of wildflowers and the quiet would help her memory. Aziraphale suspected she was trying to cover up the fact that she couldn’t remember anything whatsoever, but he didn’t mention—or  _ overtly think _ —the fact, less she become dispirited… so to speak.

Besides the garden was a perfectly lovely place and the quiet countryside of Tadfield was relaxingly idyllic.

_ Aziraphale? _

He nearly jumped at the sudden voice in his ear. 

If he really imagined very hard 2 he thought he could see Eros sitting beside him on the bench in his peripheral vision. She was as beautiful as she had been in his head with her crown of carnations and heart-meltingly warm smile. If she were human, she looked like the sort of woman you’d see on a magazine cover or in movies, someone who would be noticed on the street.

_ Yes? _ The reply was internal, naturally, if Aziraphale spoke aloud he would get weird looks from passing cyclists and pedestrians and he was already under enough domestic scrutiny without the unwanted attention of strangers  _ thankyouverymuch _ .

_ I’ve been having a look through your memories _ , she began, before hurriedly adding,  _ Nothing personal of course, just some interesting tidbits about humanity. _

_ Anything in particular? _ He asked, once his brief and private panic attack had faded.

_ Flowers. _

_ Flowers? _

He could almost feel her nod,  _ Yes, you have several memories devoted to something called ‘floriography’, I was wondering what that was. _

Aziraphale blinked in surprise,  _ Floriography? Oh, yes, the language of flowers. _

_ Flowers can speak? _

Aziraphale just barely managed to stifle a rather impolite snigger,  _ No, no flowers can’t speak. In certain human civilisations flowers carried meanings, both good and bad, and the humans used them to communicate discretely. It was quite the rage in the Victorian era, if I recall. _

_ So what do mine mean? _

He frowned,  _ Sorry? _

Eros paused and in his mind’s eye Aziraphale could see her thoughtfully tugging on a carnation bloom in her curls.

_ My flowers. What do the humans think they say? _

Aziraphale hummed as he tried to remember back to his rather distant botany days.

_ Red carnations represent passionate love,  _ He thought, finally, _ Pink ones represent a more maternal sort of love, and white ones represent pure and innocent love like that of a child. _

Eros was silent and Aziraphale could feel she was thinking. 

_ What about Lobelia? What does it say? _

Aziraphale paused. His interest in botany had been quite a while ago and he was more familiar with the more positive flower meanings but eventually the pages of an old floriography dictionary resurfaced.

_ Lobelia represents malevolence. _

Eros sighed,  _ Oh. _

She lapsed back into silence and Aziraphale chose to fill the time by trying to recount the pages of that long-forgotten dictionary. At one point, he recalled that he had considered sending Crowley a bouquet in Victorian London 3 when the sending of secret flower messages was at the height of its popularity, but he had feared a bouquet of arbutus, balsam, bellflower, and thornless red roses was a bit too on the nose, especially given that he and Crowley were both male inasmuch as their corporations were concerned and any messenger he used was sure to blab- which would be disastrous if they happened to do so within earshot of either Head office.

That or he had thought about it too much, allowed his anxiety to overcome the alcohol, and sobered up.

Back in the present, however, the issue of Eros’ memories was still a rather pressing problem. So Aziraphale tried again to try to jog it.

_ Could it help if you told me what you do remember? About why you’re here? _

As if caught mid-thought, Eros took a while to respond, before replying with a hesitant,  _ Maybe. _

Aziraphale smiled as he watched a robin sing on the garden fence, waiting for her to continue.

The tiny bird’s song was long over with when she finally spoke,  _ I...I remember the Fall. I can remember how awful it was, how terrifying, but I think you know that already. _

Aziraphale grimaced,  _ I do. And then? _

_ It gets harder to recall after that. You said you dreamt of Hell didn’t you? I think I followed the Fallen. _

_ You Fell **voluntarily**? _ Aziraphale asked, incredulous, but he felt Eros shake her head.

_ No, I’m not an angel, I can’t Fall. I only followed them. I was still divine when I got there, that much is still clear to me. And then… then… I think I tried healing them. _

_ You healed the Fallen? _

He felt her frown,  _ I tried to. As far as I can remember my Grace was too much for them so I just soothed what I could and helped them fall asleep. _

Aziraphale felt a small swell of gratitude towards Eros. She had helped Crowley then, she must have.

_ So, you were like a mother? _

Eros paused,  _ If that’s the appropriate word for it, I suppose I was rather maternal. _

_ Well you  _ **_are_ ** _ Love. _

The conversation lulled, from the outside it had never occurred, and all one passing cyclist had seen was a pleased-looking middle-aged man seated on a bench in a cream jumper looking into the middle-distance. Eventually Eros deigned to speak again.

_ I remember traveling from pit to pit. I think I once dived in to save someone. _

Aziraphale shuddered in sympathy. From what he had inferred from Crowley’s clipped answers regarding Hell over the millennia, boiling sulphur was not pleasant. Boiling  _ anything  _ hardly constituted a pleasant swimming arrangement but boiling sulphur was apparently the worst.

_ I was down there for years,  _ She murmured,  _ At least it felt like years. And by the end of it… by the end I was dying. I was so sure of it. I could barely stand and then I- _

She abruptly cut off and Aziraphale felt a foreign shudder of dread crawl down his spine.

_ Eros? _

He received no answer other than another shudder. Aziraphale guessed he wasn’t going to get anything more and left Eros to her pondering.

Someone yawned behind him.

“Are you still out here, angel?” Asked a familiar voice. Crowley wandered into the garden, wearing his usual black jacket and trousers but with considerably messier hair. He must have just woken up.

Aziraphale smiled, “Good morning, dear.”

Crowley scoffed and sat down next to him, “It’s the middle of the afternoon, angel, that _ thing _ keeping you too busy to notice?”

Aziraphale frowned, “She has a name, Crowley, and yes we were chatting.”

Crowley didn’t look too pleased to hear it, “You’re sure it isn’t a demon? I mean the dreams of Hell—”

“Are really quite distressing for her,” The angel retorted, “She told me she never meant to cause any bother; she was barely aware of what she was doing.”

Crowley lifted one incredulous eyebrow over the rim of his glasses, “And you believe it? Just like that?”

“ _ Yes _ , I believe her. I would feel any sort of deception.” He shot back, struggling to keep the spark of irritation from colouring his voice. This conversation with Crowley had been on and off for the better part of the last two days and it was really starting to wear on him.

“Aziraphale most demons have shitty memories of Hell,  _ any _ of them could be doing this.” Crowley glared at him and Aziraphale sighed.

“We’ve been through this, Crowley. She  _ isn’t _ a demon.”

The other eyebrow lifted to join its brother, “You aren’t exactly great at sensing deception, Aziraphale, remember the Nazis?”

Aziraphale groaned, “Yes I remember, dear. But this is different. She is literally in my own head; I would have to be an utterly terrible celestial being to  _ not _ sense any duplicity. Besides, I  _ saw _ her. She hardly looked like a demon, she looked more divine than Michael.”

Crowley sighed, “It was in your own head, it could have changed its form to try and get you to trust it, which evidently-”

Aziraphale raised one hand to massage his temple, willing away the mild ache growing there, “Crowley, please, trust me on this. She isn’t trying to hurt me. If you don’t trust her then please trust me. You know I’d never willingly endanger you or Adam.”

Crowley gazed at him steadily before grumbling, “Fine. But if it does anything, I’ll exorcise it  _ myself _ . What were you two talking about anyway? It remember why it’s bothering us yet?”

Glad that Crowley had dropped the subject of Eros being a demon in disguise—but under no illusions that the topic would crop up again at some point—Aziraphale eagerly divulged their short conversation on flower symbolism. Crowley, being an avid botanist despite his tendency to frighten his plants into submission rather than nurture them, quickly leapt at the chance to discuss vegetation and the nuances thereof with the argument soon forgotten.

If the slight tingle betraying Eros’ presence hadn’t been there, Aziraphale could have mistaken this for any one of a hundred thousand conversations he and Crowley had had over the years. It was precious beyond words. Finally, a moment of peace!

And, as is the fate of all such precious moments, it was broken almost immediately; this one meeting its fate when Aziraphale mentioned Eros’ little memory breakthrough. Crowley’s smile—warm and happy up until now—faded as fast as smoke in a hurricane.

“It what?”

“She was trying to heal demons, Crowley, I told you she isn’t a bad pers—”

Crowley leapt to his feet and pulled Aziraphale up with him, gripping the angel by the front of his jumper.

“It… _She_ healed demons? After the Fall?” Crowley’s voice was shaking as badly as his hands and Aziraphale felt that familiar feeling of utter confusion take hold once again.

“Yes… She said she followed them Down after the Fall.”

Crowley’s glasses were askew and Aziraphale could see his slit pupil. It was needle thin and Crowley’s eyes were wide and fully golden. That wasn’t good.

Crowley grit his teeth, “You’re sure she was telling the truth?”

“Y-Yes, Crowley what—?”

Aziraphale was cut off when Crowley nearly hauled him off his feet and began dragging him to the cottage.

“CROWLEY!” Aziraphale pulled himself out of the demon’s grip and took a step back, “What on Earth’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong is you’ve bloody gone and been possessed by  _ fucking  _ **_Lilith_ ** !”

Aziraphale’s brows knotted in confusion, “Who?”

Crowley groaned, “Lilith! You know? Mother of demons? Most bloody revered being in the entirety of Hell?”

“What are you talking about? Crowley, she isn’t a demon. I don’t know how many times I—”

Crowley shook his head, obviously fighting the instinct to just pick Aziraphale up bodily and carry him inside, “No, angel, you don’t get it. Demons don’t believe in anything other than Lucifer, their own bloody cleverness, and  _ Lilith _ .  _ She’s _ the one who healed us after the Fall!”

His shouting brought Anathema out of the cottage clutching some sort of occult book with Adam right behind her; the ex-Antichrist had behaved very well the past few days and had given Aziraphale plenty of space, clearly aware the topic was still rather precarious, and right now the twelve-year old was staring wide-eyed from behind Anathema’s arm. The witch looked between the demon and angel pair and raised her eyebrows.

“What’s all the yelling about?”

Crowley answered before Aziraphale could, “Eros is Lilith. She’s been playing us for bloody fools!”

Anathema paled, clearly she recognised Lilith’s name, “ _ Mater etiam daemonia _ …”

Crowley growled, “Yeah, exactly.”

Anathema took a step back, “Adam, get back in the house, get my amulet!”

The ex-Antichrist obeyed and hurried back. Aziraphale spluttered, “What- What’s wrong? What are you doing?”

Anathema was flicking through her book at lightning speed, “We have to get rid of her Aziraphale. She’s dangerous,  _ really _ dangerous.”

“ _ What’s going on? _ ” Aziraphale felt his mouth move, shaping Eros’ words. She sounded completely perplexed and a little afraid. 

Crowley snarled,  “You shut the fuck up. Anathema-!”

“I’m going as fast as I can!”

“You’re going to  _ exorcise _ her?” Aziraphale cried and he felt Eros’ panic flutter against his sternum like a trapped bird.

“Yes, angel, I said I’d do it if she did anything. Her being Lilith fucking counts.”

“ _ Lilith? _ ”

Crowley hissed, “I ssssaid  _ shut it _ .”

Adam reappeared with the amulet and handed it to Anathema who shooed him back inside. She found her page and, holding the amulet aloft, began chanting in familiar Latin.

“ **_No! I won’t let you take me!_ ** ” Eros shrieked and her fledgling panic filled Aziraphale. Underneath the feeling hammering away at his heart, the angel felt something like the ghost of cold chains around his wrists though that phantom weight evaporated when Crowley made a grab for his arm. Aziraphale felt himself take a step back.

“Eros? Eros what are you doing!”

Aziraphale received no reply other than the mounting panic and brief flashes of weights dragging his limbs down. When Crowley succeeded in grabbing his arm, that panic transcended into outright terror and Eros finally forced Aziraphale’s body out of his control; pulling away from Crowley so violently that the demon was nearly tugged off his feet. The angel tried to scream for her to stop but he was unable to break through the tight knot of fright curled in his, now her, chest.

“ **_You won’t touch me again, Morningstar!_ ** ”

Aziraphale had the briefest moment to look at Crowley’s stunned face before two truly gigantic golden wings unfolded from his back and, with a single beat, he was launched into the air like an angelic missile.

_ Eros, stop! Stop! What’s wrong? Crowley wasn’t going to hurt us; I could have convinced him! _ Predictably, he received no reply. He could still see through his own eyes, however, and he really wished he couldn’t. Clouds flew past in a blur as Eros screamed through the air, her gigantic wings beating like a frantic heart behind them, and soon he was utterly lost as to where they were and feeling slightly sick. It was getting dark by the time he recognised the mass of lights ahead as London and it didn’t take long for him to realise where Eros was headed.

A part of him—a small part mind you—was inordinately pleased to be going back to the bookshop. The rest, of course, was far too swamped with worry for Crowley and Anathema to really care where he ended up, and another tiny part was idly wondering what that burning sensation under his skin was.

The bookshop was a welcome sight. One Aziraphale just managed to glimpse as Eros stormed forward, flinging the front door open hard enough to crack the glass in its cloudy window. Once the door shut behind them with another almighty crash, Aziraphale felt the panic recede and, bit by bit, Eros relented her control. She managed to get Aziraphale to the familiar armchair before she disappeared completely, retreating into Aziraphale’s mind without so much as an apology.

Abruptly handed back the reins, Aziraphale nearly blacked out. His body ached worse than it had ever ached before, like someone was injecting hellfire just underneath his skin and his wings—smaller now and no longer golden—felt as if they had been plucked bare, allowed to regrow, and then plucked again with no real care. 

He was aware of collapsing into the armchair but everything else after that was drowned in the gathering dark of oblivion.

***

Gabriel was rather flustered. It took quite a lot to fluster an angel, especially one as old as Gabriel, but it had been known to happen. He had just finished checking up with Barachiel and how the Seraph was handling his secret task and the meeting had left him feeling like a rope on the verge of snapping; the other angel had been… twitchy to say the least. All the angels he’d checked in with were scared, dealing with their assigned blessings as fast as possible before retreating quickly back to their warded dwellings.

As far as Gabriel knew, Beelzebub’s demons were acting in much the same way and their oddly skittish behaviour had Barachiel quick to comment on it; questioning the sudden lack of demon sightings despite the demonic feeling in the air. The Archangel had assured the Seraph—for several _incredibly_ long hours—that it was a matter already under investigation and to simply focus on his own safety and his task. 

Gabriel had been trying to project an air of calm throughout all his visits and frankly it was beginning to strain his self-control; so much so that in clenching his fists he had cut small crescent moons into his palms.

If there was one silver lining to this abominable cloud it was that the blasted headache had finally disappeared.

The angel next on his list was Israfiel—unknowingly partnered with a demon known as Marut—who had been most disappointed when learning that Armageddon had been cancelled. The angel had been practicing with his trumpet for the past two millennia in preparation for his role in sounding the bugle to announce the Apocalypse and a sudden reassignment to Earth had been the only way to break through his melancholy 4 .

Israfiel had hidden himself away in an abandoned flat next to a church, taking advantage of the proximity of consecrated ground in order to strengthen his own protective wards. It had resulted in Gabriel having to search for the flat on the ground, the wards obscuring Israfiel’s location too well to simply miracle himself there. It was supremely irritating.

The streets of London were not very crowded this late at night especially since this was a residential district. The use of a few discreet miracles helped him pass the humans by unnoticed. 

The church had finally come into view when he felt a sudden spike of divinity flare in his subconscious. Abruptly, he took a turn into an alley, away from the passing humans and their interfering auras, and attempted to track it.

To no avail. 

Gabriel, being an ancient immortal almost as old as the Universe, was used to the feelings of divinity emanating from his fellow Archangels and this flare up, whilst indeed powerful enough to have belonged to an Archangel, was most certainly not from them. Even Michael could not have sparked such a surge of power. It was, like most things these days, puzzling and without an obvious answer.

He sighed and rubbed at his eyes. The dark alley was cold and he felt out of place among the shadows and the damp; briefly, he wondered if Beelzebub would have liked it here.

A whisper of cloth behind him made him turn around.

“ _ I can assure you, Gabriel, your traitorous partner enjoys the dark much more than you will _ .”

* * *

_ 1 _ _ Which was, unbeknownst to Aziraphale, plenty disturbed enough. Crowley had been lucky to grab just a few hours each night rather than his usual eight or nine; the result of having an impossibly ancient immortal inhabit the angel you were only now getting to kiss you after six thousand years, so Crowley figured Aziraphale would forgive him if he was a little rude. _

_ 2 _ _ That was generally Crowley’s schtick but Aziraphale had been with the demon and had watched him improvise for far too long for an imagination not to start coalescing underneath those platinum curls. _

_ 3 _ _ Admittedly, he was very drunk at the time and feeling particularly lonely. _

_ 4 _ _ That and Michael had seriously been considering choking him to death and the other Archangels had had to act quickly. There is only so much miserable trumpet playing any Archangel can stand after all. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, angst! Finally a plot!
> 
> The first half of this chapter resisted being written for DAYS and I have no idea why; maybe writing Angry!Crowley threw me for a loop or something. The second half was much easier... probably because of the cliffhanger but that's just how I roll.  
> Also I believe I have referred to my Lucifer as the Morningstar somewhere before and I want to reasssure Lucifer(TV) fans that this Lucifer is definitely NOT the excellant Devil portrayed by Tom Ellis. Trust me, I adore that Lucifer and my Lucifer is _nothing_ like him.
> 
> Tomorrow we get to see the aftermath of Gabriel's encounter and how a certain Prince dislikes being stood-up.
> 
> As always kudos and comments are very welcome and much appreciated :)


	11. Denial and Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another victim is discovered and Beelzebub thinks Crowley might have something to do with it.

Anna Strennis had had a very long day. 

Her husband had wasted another fifty pounds on booze and had got so soused the other night that he was still sleeping off the hangover; her daughter had been unable to help with the baby because of her work in the missionary and so she’d had to hire a babysitter for little Julie; and, to top it off, her car had broken down and now she was having to _walk_ home. All that combined with a shit day of work at the garden centre—where she’d had some old coot insist on having a bouquet of ‘dragons-of-paradise’ even after Anna had stressed that there was no such thing whilst pointing out the shelf of bird-of-paradise flowers—had left her in a foul mood and ready to give her husband an earful when she got home.

Fate deigned she never would.

Instead, on her way home, past the block of abandoned apartments and the old church, she heard something like a fight in a nearby alleyway. Now, Anna was no fighter, but she had a purse full of odds and ends and a lot of anger she needed to work out, so she rushed to the aid of whomever was under attack- fuelled by the righteousness of a bad day.

She had arrived too late it seemed. The young man in a business suit was lying crumpled on the floor by the time she rounded the corner and his assailant was standing triumphantly above him in the gloom of the alleyway. She strode forward, one hand already dialling 999 and the other clutching her comfortingly heavy purse.

“Oi!” She yelled at the figure, “What in the bloody blue hell do you think you’re doing? Attacking innocent men on the street, you should be ashamed of yourself!”

She was rather proud of how indignant she sounded, and she hefted her purse to emphasise her point. The attacker gave a long and heavy sigh. A cold wind blew into the alleyway and goosebumps raised along Anna’s exposed arm. 

“ _ I am, woman, deeply ashamed that I have let it come this far, for She forfeited his life aeons ago and I should have stepped in then.” _

Anna swallowed audibly, she had thought the young man unconscious but now that she looked at him, she saw he was no longer breathing. She lifted the still-ringing phone to her ear and kept her purse raised- trying to ignore her trembling hands.

“What?” Was all she managed to stammer out. 

“ _ He paid, as they all shall pay, for Her betrayal.”  _ The figure turned to face her for the first time and Anna dropped the phone, her hands falling limp at her side as a scream struggled to escape past the fear clenching her throat.

“ _ And you shall pay, too, woman. All shall face my wrath in the End _ .”

Anna backed away a trembling step, the entrance to the alleyway suddenly much too far away.

“W-what? But I’m not a bad person, I’ve done nothing wrong!” She wasn’t bad really. She had tried her best with what she had been given; she had tried to help Phillip with his drinking, she had raised their daughter right, and she was providing as best she could for her second child. What more could she do?

The figure straightened and Anna backed away another step.

“ _ Do not fear, your children will join you soon. All shall face justice in the End. All will pay for the death of my Sister _ .”

Anna shrieked once; then the alleyway fell silent.

***

Gabriel’s text was, as always, infuriatingly vague.

_ Can’t meet. Sorry. _

Beelzebub had nearly thrown the phone across their desk in their short-lived anger. For six hours they had waited for his text and now, for the first time in weeks, he couldn’t meet them. It was so bloody typical of the Universe to do this, they thought, of all the times he couldn’t make it, it would be now when the other six Princes were awaiting news.

Dagon had fled the room when Beelzebub had punched the wall and they conceded that perhaps they were overreacting. Just a little. Gabriel was probably carrying out some divine order or whatever. They’d see him eventually.

And so, Beelzebub decided to take a surprise inspection tour of their demonic agents on Earth. If, for no other reason, than to curb their temper and stave off encroaching insanity. 

The tour, as all tours had previously been, was abysmal. The demon posted in America—also confusingly called Crowley but pronounced Cr- _ ow _ -ley instead of Crow-ley—was doing just well enough in his temptations that Beelzebub didn’t reprimand him for palling around with Gabriel’s agent Castiel—the two human ‘hunters’ didn’t even warrant their attention. 

The demon in South Africa got a stern reprimand for half-assing her recent temptations and had left the meeting with a few less fingers than she had arrived with 1 . 

And the demon in Sydney, called Dumah, had screwed up their last temptation so much 2 that Beelzebub was forced to send them back to Hell and call up a replacement. They may or may not have taken a little too much pleasure in discorporating the unfortunate demon, but they weren’t extinct, so Beelzebub figured they’d be grateful… eventually.

They were in London, checking up on Marut, when they felt him. The Archangel’s presence irked them at first, but they decided, after much internal deliberation, to seek him out. 

If he couldn’t arrange a meeting himself, they’d force one. Earth had many good things 3 but they couldn’t run from Hell indefinitely. They certainly weren’t immune to holy water and weren’t eager for a bath anytime soon; so if they just happened to corner Gabriel, weasel some information from him, and then let him go on his way the Archangel could just brush it off as an unsuccessful surprise ambush—if he even had to report it.

Nothing to worry about; except that they couldn’t bloody find him. They had definitely felt his presence and it hadn’t disappeared yet so the Archangel must still be in London. As such they took their time combing the London streets where they had last felt him and on the way Beelzebub tempted three teenagers into trying a beer, coaxed a set of traffic lights into malfunctioning—resulting in a minor traffic incident that locked the road down for hours—and had pissed off a swan in a nearby park, so much so that it had driven nearly everyone out of the park on a perfectly lovely day. 

They weren’t masterful temptations, to be sure, but Beelzebub was bored, and it was much more fun to watch humans get annoyed than watch them kill each other. Besides Gabriel would get irritated if they caused too much of a fuss.

It was fully dark by the time they narrowed down the Archangel’s location to somewhere around an old church. The proximity to consecrated ground made their feet itch and teeth ache but they were sure Gabriel wasn’t inside. Another angelic presence was cowering in a nearby tenement flat, but their Grace was much too weak to be Gabriel, so Beelzebub ignored them and kept moving. 

A nearby alley looked promising and Beelzebub huffed a sigh. Of all the places Gabriel could be,  _ of course _ he was down a dark and dingy London alleyway after nightfall. 

Their thoughts of teasing the Archangel for his choice of loitering spots abruptly vanished when they trod on something soft and warm. 

They looked down at the body of a middle-aged woman and quickly removed their mud-encrusted shoe from the corpse’s arm. They crouched down and inspected the body, bile rising in their throat. A phone with a cracked screen lay underneath the woman’s hand and her eyes were glassy, her messy greying hair splayed in a dark halo around her head. 

She was dead, that much was obvious, but in such a way it was eerily similar to—

_ No _ .

No, not  _ him _ .

They leapt over the corpse, panic turning their veins to ice and a strange static deafening their ears, as they raced into the alley.

Their agonised shriek roused several nearby families.

They fell to their knees, heedless of the cold damp of the alley, and gently cradled the much larger corpse of Gabriel. Something was breaking in their chest. It  _ twisted _ sharply when they looked at Gabriel’s vacant violet eyes. They knew those eyes; they should be full of disgust—or faint, barely disguised humour—but not  _ empty _ . He should be burning with divine purpose, not cold and unresponsive in their arms. 

Beelzebub knew he was dead but that didn’t stop them from yelling at him to  _ wake the fuck up! _ That  _ this wasn’t fucking funny! _ And that he was  _ so bloody dead if he didn’t fucking stop this right now! _

Threats rarely roused the dead.

They weren’t aware they were crying, but they must have been because black drops of oil were staining Gabriel’s immaculate suit. They also weren’t aware for how long they stayed, cradling the body of their sworn enemy and sobbing into his stilled chest. For a long, long time all they could hear was their own harsh breathing and a despairing mantra of  _ NO, NO, NO _ repeating over and over and over again . 

They did stop but by the time they did Gabriel’s suit was completely ruined.

Taking big, hiccoughing breaths, they felt a plan begin to coalesce, pushing past the tightness constricting their chest. 

This thing—this  _ monster _ —had officially overstepped, and Beelzebub’s wrath built like a living thing, coiling its way from the pit of their stomach to clench unrelentingly around their heart and  _ squeeze _ . If they had any power as a Prince of Hell, they swore on it that this creature would suffer for an eternity before they snuffed its foul little life out of existence entirely. 

Plan decided, however little of it there was, they gently laid Gabriel’s body down on the cold cobblestone. It took a few minutes to bring themselves to let him go, and when they did another wracking sob choked its way out of them. They knelt and closed the Archangel’s vacant eyes before fleeing the alley, face smudged with oil and hands achingly cold, still faintly smelling of lavender.

Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, fled in search of the one person they knew of who could possibly know the identity of this murderer. The one person they knew of who had never had to fear it.

It was time to see Crowley again.

***

London’s traffic was—as it had always been—shit. Crowley growled as another red light halted the already maddeningly slow crawl. He had left Anathema and Adam at the cottage after convincing them that it was far too dangerous for them to come looking and if anything happened, he would text them; his anger rising once again as Lilith came back to the forefront of his thoughts.

Of  _ fucking _ course Aziraphale had been possessed by Hell’s most revered icon. 

OF  _ FUCKING _ COURSE, she had stolen his angel.

Crowley was starting to wonder if God had a really sick sense of humour if this was how She treated Her angels, especially an angel whose only crime was halting Armageddon and hanging out with Crowley himself. 

Surely that didn’t warrant such cruelty. Aziraphale hadn’t even Questioned Her; he’d only ever Questioned Heaven itself.

His mind unhelpfully went back to imagining what Lilith was doing to Aziraphale now that her secret was revealed. Images of his angel being used like a puppet by a demon, whose very reputation suggested she was more powerful than Lucifer himself, flooded his vision; he nearly crashed the Bentley into the back of an ancient Renault. Crowley’s patience for human traffic finally ran dry at the next ridiculously long red light, and he used several miracles to clear the road to Soho; ignorant of the rampant chaos it left behind him. 

His car had never achieved such awesome speeds before, and it seemed to reflect Crowley’s black mood with Queen’s  _ See What A Fool I've Been _ playing in the background.

He ground his teeth as the car belted out the lyrics that hit far too close to home. The familiar streets of Soho soon came into view, and he gunned for Aziraphale’s bookstore.

It was entirely possible Lilith hadn’t brought him here and was currently halfway across the planet on those bloody massive golden wings of hers or that she had returned to Hell and even now was amassing some sort of army to... to…

Crowley admitted he had no fucking clue what Lilith had planned—but he knew to the depths of his twisted soul that it was nothing good. His only lead was the bookshop, and if she wasn’t there Crowley would scour the Earth ten times over to drag her spirit out of his angel’s body himself.

Then again Lilith didn’t seem the most stable right now, so Crowley figured she had probably gone somewhere that felt familiar and safe, and since she was inhabiting Aziraphale the bookshop was the obvious choice.

The shopfront, familiar through two hundred years of visiting, appeared up ahead and Crowley sped towards it. That’s when it happened.

One moment he was pressing the accelerator, Freddy Mercury crooning ‘ _ I guess I'm all to blame. Oh, Lord. I guess I'm all to blame _ ’, and the next he was standing next to—or, rather,  _ pressed up against _ —a wall in an alleyway, face to face with an incredibly furious Prince of Hell by the name of Beelzebub.

Crowley decided God’s humour was in rather poor taste.

“Beelzebub, dude, how’ve you been?” Crowley was trying for glib, but the slight waver in his voice betrayed him. 

Beelzebub snarled,  “Shut it, Crowley, otherwizzze I’ll tear out your tongue and make you  _ swallow it _ !”

Crowley nodded and—wisely—shut his trap.

“You and your fucking angel are going to anzzzzzwer zzzome quezzzztionzzz, and if you lie, I’ll make zzure—by the time I’m done with you—you will  _ wish _ holy water could dezzztroy you.”

A polite sounding cough came from behind the buzzing Prince, and Crowley watched—stomach sinking—as Ligur stepped into view.

“My Lord, are you sure about this?” The recently un-deceased Duke of Hell asked, eyeing Crowley warily. Then Hastur stepped into view behind the chameleon and glared so viciously at Crowley that he wondered if he’d shrivel up and die, just by Hastur wishing it so. 

Beelzebub buzzed so ferociously the two Dukes took a step back.

“Yezzz I’m bloody zzzure! No one hazzzz a bloody clue who or what the killer izz, and I’m willing to bet Hell’zz greatezzzzt tempter knowzzz zzomething!”

Crowley made a rather undignified whimper as the tiny Prince of Hell pushed him ruthlessly into the brick wall of the alley whilst he wondered what in the hell they were on about.

Hastur tried this time, “But, my Lord, why would he know anything about the murders? Let alone the murderer—"

Beelzebub forgot about Crowley entirely and let him drop as they rounded on Hastur.

“ **SHUT THE FUCK UP** !” Their aura was so toxic that even the two Dukes winced, “He’zzz _Crowley_. He _always_ figurezz out a way to zzave hizzz own worthlezz, zzzcaly hide, he even figured out how to be immune to  _ holy— _ **_fucking_ ** _ —water _ , you think itzz too far-fetched that thizzz moron would find a way to avoid a murderer that'zz killed more than thirty demonzzz including a fucking Duke? If _anyone_ knowzzz _anything_ it'll be thizzz bloody coward!”

Crowley judged that now was a good a time as any to interrupt given that he had _ no fucking clue  _ what the hell they were on about, “What murderer?”

Beelzebub nearly snapped their own neck as they spun around and slammed Crowley back against the wall, his glasses falling to the ground and ending up smashed under the Prince’s filthy heel.

“ _ The _ murderer! The one who’zz been killing angelzz and demonzz for the past three weekzzz! They’ve killed Abaddon, and Zzzandalphon and… and…”

The fire faltered in their watery blue eyes, and Crowley was unceremoniously dropped again.

“My Lord?” Ligur asked, tentatively, stepping forward as Crowley struggled to his feet. For the first time Crowley noticed the black streaks marring Beelzebub’s pockmarked cheeks, and that sinking feeling somehow sunk further.

“They killed Gabriel.”

Crowley recoiled. Two minutes ago, he hadn’t even known there  _ was _ a murderer, and now he was learning said murderer had the power to kill Archangels. 

He had imagined rejoicing at the news of Gabriel’s death after the shit the smarmy git had pulled in attempting to bring about the apocalypse, not to mention what he had done to Aziraphale afterwards, but to his surprise Crowley felt no such satisfaction. Gabriel was a horrible, slimy, bastard 4 , but he had been family once and—judging from Beelzebub’s crestfallen expression—the averted end of the world had forced the bastard to change.

But Beelzebub’s vulnerability evaporated as fast as it came, and they slammed Crowley back against the brick wall so hard that he heard it crack. Two things then occurred.

First: his fangs snapped into existence on reflex with a furious hiss, and second: an incredibly bright and familiar light flooded the alleyway. Beelzebub dropped him for the third time as they, along with Hastur and Ligur, quickly backed away from the fiery light clutching at their eyes. 

Crowley was already growling before Lilith came into view, alighting on the filthy cobblestone, his angel still dressed in that cream jumper from a few hours earlier. But instead of attacking Crowley like he expected (and was frankly bloody terrified of) Lilith rounded on the other demons.

She wasted no time, and Beelzebub was launched further into the alleyway with a single punch—Ligur and Hastur having barely enough time to gape in astonishment before they, too, were flung down the alley to land in a heap on top of the vibrating lump that was the incensed Head Prince of Hell. With the demons dealt with, Lilith turned to Crowley whose hissing stopped the moment he saw the gold drain from his angel’s eyes.

“Aziraphale? That you?”

Aziraphale smiled, nodding, and Crowley once again smothered the angel in a hug, not really caring if Lilith was still in there or not. Aziraphale hugged him back just as tightly and they stayed locked in an embrace until the ragged pile of demons started moving.

“Dear,” Aziraphale paused, “What exactly is going on? I’m afraid neither of us were really coherent when we got here.”

Crowley groaned, “Beelzebub’s gone mad, I think. Was harking on about some murderer who's been going around killing demons  _ and _ angels. And they think I might know something.” Now that he’d said it aloud, the whole thing sounded as insane as he’d thought it had.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows but said nothing. 

Beelzebub eventually disentangled themselves from the pile of limbs and staggered to their unsteady feet, the fly buzzing furiously on top of their head. They caught sight of Aziraphale and, for the first time in his history of knowing the Prince, Crowley saw a glint of true fear in those watery blue eyes.

“What in Lilith’zzz name—” They began and Aziraphale grimaced.

“Please don’t use that name, it’ll upset her.” As if to accentuate that fact, Aziraphale’s eyes flashed gold; Beelzebub flinched.

“What the fuck izzz going on?”

“ _ I should be asking that of you, Remiel, I thought you were better than this. _ ” Lilith’s voice had changed—the slightly amused note had left it, as had the cheerfulness, and the result was something even Crowley shrank back from. It reminded him too readily of Michael. 

Evidently it was scaring the piss out of Beelzebub too.

“H-how did you—"

“ _ You don’t remember me, Remiel? I remember you. _ ” Aziraphale took a step forward as Beelzebub staggerd back, “ _ Ithuriel and Ambriel didn’t recognise me either, care to tell me why? I know you number among Hell now, did Lucifer never mention me? _ ”

Crowley sighed, “You’re talking to Lilith, Beelzebub.”

“ _ Lilith _ ? Azz in—?”

Crowley nodded, and Beelzebub  somehow  paled even further .

It didn’t take long for Hastur and Ligur to catch on once they dragged themselves to their feet and their reaction wasn’t too terribly different from Beelzebub’s 5 . Lilith ordered the three into the bookshop and they obeyed like children who knew they had crossed the line and were in for it.

It would have been hilarious if the circumstances were at all different. Aziraphale marching two Dukes of Hell and a Prince into the backroom of the bookshop and glaring at them until they sat down in the chairs that Crowley miracled up was so bizarre as to be absurd. 

Aziraphale himself (or Lilith, depending on how you looked at it) stood tall and glowered at the three until they were visibly sweating.

“ _ Well? I’m waiting for an answer. _ ”

Ligur looked petrified, as did Hastur, and Beelzebub only managed a small “Mphphm?” as a reply.

“ _ Remiel. I am in no mood for games. Why did you attack Crowley? _ ”

“I-I um…err… I…” Beelzebub stammered, and Lilith scowled. It was, Crowley reflected—as the Lord of Flies swallowed thickly—very weird to watch Aziraphale scowl like that. He still wasn’t at all sure what Lilith’s deal was but, considering how violently she had dealt with the demonic trio, he conceded she was probably  _ not _ out to kill him and Aziraphale.

Yet.

“ _ Yes? _ ”

Beelzebub took one look at Aziraphale and noisily broke down into tears.

“I-I f-found Gabriel’zz b-b-body earlier a-and I th-thought Crowley mi-might know zzomething.” Beelzebub sobbed as Crowley fished around in his pockets for a new pair of glasses, finding it difficult to look at the Prince’s face as black tears crawled down it. He might hate their rotten guts, but he recognised grief when he saw it.

The gold drained from Aziraphale’s eyes and he clasped his hands together awkwardly as the Prince of Hell bawled into their hands; the two Dukes looked about ready to faint.

“Well, I think some tea is in order, don’t you dear?”

  
  


* * *

_ 1 _ _ Harut was able to regrow body parts like the octopus that clung to her head, so it was more of an inconvenience than anything else, Beelzebub didn’t want even sloppier temptations on account of permanently missing body parts. _

_ 2 _ _ Temptations generally resulted in the tempted being nudged towards Hell, Dumah had somehow created a modern day saint who was going around spreading peace and healing small marsupials, Dumah themselves couldn’t explain how. _

_ 3 _ _ They’d spent an hour eating pastries in a nearby café and were still licking sugar from their lips. _

_ 4 _ _ Which was Crowley putting it mildly. _

_ 5 _ _ Ligur’s jaw dropped and Hastur’s eyes boggled like the eyes of the frog perched on his head under the bad wig. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would now be a good time to mention the irony that is my wonderful Beta (@FictiveFeline) reading this chapter whilst listening to 2WEI's 'Survivor' cover? All the music on Youtube and she picked _that_ one to listen to when reading this scene.
> 
> Anyway, yes, finally the plot is starting to chug along and now its starting to get nice and angsty- just how I like it :)  
> I have to confess that I had no idea whether or not I really wanted to have Beelzebub as such a central character but the more I wrote as them the more I started to like it.
> 
> Next up, Beelzebub gets some much needed comfort, Crowley guards the bookshop, and we get to meet a new angel.  
> As always kudos and comments are very welcome and much appreciated :)


	12. Bargaining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beelzebub gets some much needed comfort; Crowley plays babysitter; and a new angel jumps into the story.

It had taken approximately six gallons of tea 1 , eleven towels, and three plates of biscuits to calm Beelzebub down and the Prince of Hell was currently cocooned in several fluffy blankets. Eros had quietly slipped away, taking with her the beginnings of heartbreak to spare Aziraphale her own pain at the news the Prince had borne and to spare Beelzebub any more pain should she lose control of herself once again. One breakdown was quite enough.

For himself, Aziraphale felt both intense wariness and great sympathy for the grief-stricken demon, but, being an angel, the sympathy had won out and, presumably sensing this, Beelzebub had stuck close to him whenever they weren’t sipping tea or nibbling on chocolate bourbons.

Ligur and Hastur had been taken, on Eros’ orders, to the main foyer of the bookshop to be watched by Crowley whilst Beelzebub was dealt with, her earlier rage smothered by more appropriate compassion.

Another oily tear slipped down Beelzebub’s face and Aziraphale miracled up a new, clean and fluffy towel; he wiped the liquid away and offered them another biscuit. The blankets rustled as the demon snaked out an arm, selected a custard cream, and then snaked back, disappearing under the folds of soft cloth until it reappeared in their mouth a moment later. 

“Izzz it r-really her?” Beelzebub’s voice was raw from crying and mouse timid. This was, the angel realised, probably the first time anything like this had happened since the Fall. No wonder they had cried for so long.

“I think so.” Aziraphale replied, his own voice lowered in that peculiar way it always did when someone else was talking quietly, “Though she never said anything about being called Lilith.”

Beelzebub almost chuckled and a few more tears ran down their face, the towel getting a little more stained, “Makezzz zzzenzzze. No one I’ve known hazzz ever zzeen her, the newzzz probably mizzzed her.” They shifted in the blanket cocoon and reached for another biscuit, a party ring this time 2 .

Aziraphale sipped his own tea, “I’ve never heard of her before.”

Beelzebub swallowed before replying, “You wouldn’t have heard it in Heaven. No demon uzzzes her name cazzzually, ezzzpecially not near angelzzz.”

Aziraphale let the conversation lull as he thought up the best way to word his next question. Given how delicate Beelzebub was right now he wasn’t even sure if he  _ should _ ask it, being upset was never a good time to be questioned after all, but his curiosity overcame his better judgement 3 .

“How do you know she  _ is _ a she?”

Beelzebub stiffened slightly, then sighed and scrubbed at their face, “When we…Fell, we all remembered landing in the zzzulphur lakezz. But we all awoke on their shorezz. Every zzzingle one of uzzz. And every demon zzaid they remembered zzomeone, a woman, holding them and zzzoothing them but she wazzz gone by the time we woke up.”

Aziraphale hummed and offered another biscuit, Beelzebub took it gratefully.

“You all saw her?”

Two watery blue eyes met with blue-gold ones and a ghost of a smile crossed the Prince’s face.

“Yezzz. But we all zzzaw her differently.” Beelzebub picked up the black-winged angel mug and sipped their scalding hot tea. “Zzzome zzzwore she had hornzzz, otherzz zzaid she didn’t. I’ve heard of her having zzzkin of every pozzzible colour in the Univerzze and even zzzome new onezz. I’ve alzzo heard her eyezz are like zzztarzzz or like a zzzerpentzzz or an inzzzectzz.” The fly on their head buzzed feebly, “She’zzz beautiful, ugly, old, childlike. I’ve heard every zzzingle pozzzibility and yet the only thing every zzztory agreezzz on izzz that she izzz female. Every time.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, “So none of you know what she truly looks like?”

“No, but judging from her voice she’zzz probably fucking terrifying.”

The angel smiled slowly, “No, not really. What did she look like to you?”

Beelzebub eyed him over the rim of the mug, “Me?”

He nodded and they sighed, squeezing their eyes shut. Aziraphale waited patiently and took a sip of his perfectly heated and not at all too-sweet tea.

“I remember zzeeing her over me, she looked… zzad. She had blinding white hair and zzzilver eyezz. Really pale zzzkin, almozzzt white and her wingzzz were zzzilver.”

“ _ Sounds more like my Sister than me, Remiel. _ ”

Beelzebub jumped a foot in the air 4 and emitted a small buzzing squeak- nearly slopping boiling tea over themselves.

Eros stifled a giggle, “ _ Sorry. _ ”

“Lilith?” Beelzebub stared out from their nest straight at Aziraphale who knew his irises were now golden.

“ _ Eros, if you please, Remiel. _ ”

“Erozz.”

“ _ Close enough. _ ”

The petite Prince of Hell gave Aziraphale a searching once over.

“Hazzz she been in there thizz whole time?” They looked faintly embarrassed. Aziraphale sighed and Eros did as well; sighing in stereo sounded odd.

“ _ Well, I  _ **_am_ ** _ possessing Aziraphale. _ ”

“I can zzzee that.”

“ _ Yes, and as such it is rather difficult for me not to hear you. However, I digress, if we’re giving names, may I ask what name it is you prefer now? _ ”

“Beelzebub.” The Prince muttered.

“ _ Ah yes. And Ithuriel, Ambriel, what do they call themselves these days? _ ” Aziraphale realised Eros was pointedly avoiding the topic of the Archangel and was profoundly glad. Beelzebub was in enough pain as it was 5 and he worried the world might run out of towels if the topic was broached so soon.

Beelzebub ate another biscuit, chewing slowly, before answering.

“Ithuriel izzz Hazzztur and Ambriel izzz Ligur.”

Aziraphale smiled, “ _ Thank you, Beelzebub. _ ” Eros spoke the Prince’s name with what also sounded like a smile, Beelzebub themselves brightened a little—probably glad she hadn’t reverted to their angel name again.

“You have a zzizzter?” Beelzebub asked, cautiously changing the topic.

“ _ Yes, her name was Hope. _ ”

Aziraphale digested this new bit of information carefully and he could see Beelzebub doing the same. The Prince of Hell had a little bit of colour back in their cheeks which, granted still weren’t a normal healthy colour by human standards, were much more in line with their usual sallow complexion instead of the pale corpse white they had been some hours earlier.

“Lilith hazz a zzizzter?”

Eros huffed, “ _ Please, Beelzebub, its Eros. _ ”

Beelzebub winced apologetically and Aziraphale had to take a moment to appreciate the absurdity of life right now. 

He was being possessed by a primordial entity formally known as Love and currently known as Eros  _ also _ known as Lilith. He was currently playing host for a heart-broken Prince of Hell in his backroom whilst Crowley and two Dukes of Hell milled around in his bookshop, and these extra demons were only there because apparently there was a murderer running loose who had somehow killed Gabriel and who knew how many other poor celestials.

Upon reflection, Aziraphale decided that perhaps the Apocalypse hadn’t been such a bad thing after all; for one thing it, at least, had been much more organised, less confusing, and without the painful addition of the faint burning sensation under his skin.

“Zzzo what are you… Erozzz?”

Aziraphale felt Eros smile and then ponder for a bit. Beelzebub ate another three biscuits and snuggled further into their cocoon.

“ _ Well I’m not an angel and I’m not a demon. _ ”

“Not a demon?” Beelzebub sounded… disappointed?

“ _ No, I’m sorry dear. _ ”

Beelzebub sighed and grabbed another biscuit.

***

Crowley glowered.

If there was one thing in all the world, he despised more than Beelzebub it was Hastur and, by extension, Ligur. The two Dukes were milling around Aziraphale’s bookshop,  _ his angel’s bookshop _ , like curious tourists. So far, they hadn’t dared to touch anything, to Crowley’s great relief, but he suspected it was only a matter of time.

Hastur, either oblivious or pointedly ignoring Crowley's death-stare, wandered over to the demonology section.

“Ligur… didn’t you do this?” The shorter Duke wandered over and stared at the title emblazoned on the old book’s spine ‘ _ Demonic Possessions of Priests in the 18th Century _ ’.

Ligur chuckled, “Yeah, some old fool tried to exorcise me once, got the words wrong,” The chuckle became a laugh, “I corrected him and then fucked off. Saw him Below six years later.”

Hastur raised a pale eyebrow, “What for?”

“Taking advice from a demon.”

Hastur laughed.

Crowley groaned loudly; it was like listening to an old married couple, “Honessstly, dinossaurss the both of you.”

Hastur glared at him, “And what about you, Crawley? Finished corrupting the angel yet?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, forgetting he still had the sunglasses on, “Funny. Ligur still scared of the rain?”

Ligur winced, his orange eyes flashing yellow. Hastur snarled and ran at him but Crowley held up a hand and the Duke of Hell slammed into an invisible wall, “Now, now. Lilith wouldn’t be very happy if you hurt me, now would she?”

Hastur scrambled to his feet and growled, the bull frog swelling angrily under the wig, but he made no move to get closer, “You  _ murdered _ him!”

Crowley grinned, not a trace of humour in the expression and looking a great deal braver than he felt, “ _ You _ were coming to kill  _ me _ . Besides he isn’t dead now.”

Hastur grimaced and hobbled back over to Ligur, rubbing his arm where he’d slammed into the wall. Crowley glanced at his watch.

Two hours. His angel had been stuck with Beelzebub and Lilith for  _ two hours _ . And he’d been stuck with babysitting. Aziraphale had said to trust him, that he’d explain it all soon, but it was getting very, very difficult to trust anything at the moment. Crowley thought back to when Lilith had first spoken, when that fucking name had been forced through his angel’s lips. 

His very being shuddered at the memory.

He had not spent millennia burying that distant angel under a mountain for someone… some _ thing _ to tear it down and present it raw and bleeding to him on a platter of gold. His wings twitched in the Ether and he had the irrational urge to let them out and spread them. Some lingering instinct for intimidation he supposed, not that the two Dukes would be very intimidated.

“Hastur, you didn’t need to do that.” Ligur murmured, the yellow of his eyes fading into a soft red, accidentally breaking Crowley out of his spiralling melancholy.

“You  _ died _ .” Hastur’s voice wobbled.

“I know, but I’m back. It’s okay, love.”

Crowley ignored them. Or tried to at any rate. It’s difficult to ignore two demons making out when you’re meant to be watching them. He spent a few minutes texting Anathema about the situation as a distraction from the frankly  _ very _ noisy pair and received a lot of confusing emojis back which he assumed meant she understood 6 . After what seemed like an eternity Crowley was able to watch the two Dukes without feeling gross as they had gone back to browsing the bookshelves and commenting on the titles.

“Why the twelfth night?” asked Hastur and Ligur rolled his now-orange eyes.

“It’s the title of the play.”

“But why the twelfth? Why not the first? Or the eleventh?”

“It’s a reference to the twelfth night after Christmas, the night of revelry where servants dressed up like their masters. The main female character dresses up like a guy.” Crowley stated, the facts rolling off his tongue automatically. At the look he got from the Dukes he shrugged, “What? Aziraphale doesn’t keep those around for show. And Shakespeare was a really chatty bloke.”

Crowley, as a rule, generally didn’t know much about books, reading hurt his eyes so he tended towards listening. But Aziraphale loved reading and consequently he loved talking about books; so, Crowley had picked up a thing or two.

Over the next half hour, the Dukes periodically asked questions on this or that text and Crowley, to his own surprise as well as theirs, answered every single one. They were discussing the motivations behind Richard III’s power grab 7 when Aziraphale walked back in. He looked between the three—Crowley was sitting cross-legged on the desk with  _ Richard III _ open in his lap and the two Dukes were sitting on chairs in front of him—and a bright smile spread across his face.

“Glad to see you’re getting along.” He said cheerfully and Beelzebub shuffled into view behind him wearing a blanket around their shoulders. The two Dukes immediately stood up, in a show of respect or maybe terror lest the Prince reprimand them for forgetting they sat with a Traitor. The fly atop Beelzebub’s head somehow managed to roll its faceted eyes whilst Beelzebub themselves did no more than raise an eyebrow.

“Well, angel, is everything sorted?” Crowley hoped to Someone it was. If Lilith could just leave, he could restart coaxing Aziraphale into a proper relationship and then settle down somewhere nice. Maybe the South Downs. It was the least the angel deserved after the hardest bloody year they’d ever had.

“ _ It is in a sense, Crowley. _ ”

The demon felt his stomach sink.

Aziraphale glanced back at Beelzebub who gave a tiny smile.

“We’ve been talking,” The angel said, indicating Beelzebub, “And Eros has decided it would benefit us all if we helped solve these murders.”

The words were barely out of Aziraphale’s mouth when Crowley shook his head.

“No.” He said, simply.

Aziraphale sighed, “Dear, this is important-"

“I don’t care, this is Heaven and Hell’s problem. You helped them,” He pointed to Beelzebub who he now noticed was dressed in tartan pyjamas and fluffy slippers under the blanket, “Great. Good deed done. Now they can go.”

“This is our problem too.” Aziraphale insisted and Crowley scoffed, “No dear,  _ listen _ , I know these past few days have been rough-"

“That’s putting it mildly.”

Aziraphale huffed, “ _ But _ if this… creature is killing celestials isn’t it possible it will come after us?”

Crowley opened his mouth to answer. Then closed it. Aziraphale, irritatingly, was making sense. Whatever this thing was it didn’t seem to care for rank, and if that was the case then what was to say it would pass up on two Traitors? Aziraphale wasn’t weak, no matter what Michael and the other Archs thought, and Crowley knew exactly what his soul used to be worth.

He sighed heavily.

“Fine. What’s the plan?” 

Aziraphale brightened.

“ _ Beelzebub says they sensed another angel in London, one very near where, _ ”—Aziraphale glanced back at the Prince who was suddenly very interested in their fingernails—“ _ where the body was found. I believe _ — _ and they agree _ — _ it may be beneficial to check up on them. Perhaps get another line to Heaven. _ ”

Crowley looked at Beelzebub who he supposed was now an ally8, “I thought you could contact them.”

Beelzebub shook their head, “No, I could only contact… him. I don’t have a general line or whatever.”

“And the only other line to Heaven belongs to Dagon,” Hastur muttered.

“Yezzz, and if I go Down without anything new, I’m zzzure to get dizzembowelled by the other Princezz.” 

Aziraphale nodded, “So we’ll go over and see if this other angel knows anything, it isn’t very far is it Beelzebub?”

Beelzebub shook their head. In one fluid movement they shed the blanket and Crowley had a full, glorious minute to take in the view of his former boss dressed head to toe in distressing tartan before Beelzebub snapped their fingers and was suddenly dressed much more along their usual style except that these clothes were much cleaner and the sash was missing. Aziraphale glanced at the two Dukes as well and with a squint they were suddenly dressed in clean, darned, versions of their clothes—Hastur was even wearing a better-quality wig—and the lingering smell of sulphur was banished from the bookshop.

“ _ Might do well to give a good impression, boys, angels are rather picky _ .” Then Aziraphale turned to Crowley and Lilith spoke again, “ _ Crowley? Do you think the Bentley would fit five people? _ ”

Crowley did a double take9, “Y-you want-?”

“Eros that was  _ not _ a very funny joke.” Aziraphale scolded and Crowley pushed his glasses back up his face to hide his flushing cheeks whilst he heard Lilith giggling.

“ _ Sorry. We’ll walk; I think you two could use the time for that much needed discussion _ .

***

Aziraphale walked beside Crowley down the streets of London behind three of Hell’s most powerful demons.

The city was stirring and Aziraphale watched as cars began to putter past and night-shift workers stumbled home, passing fresh-faced morning shift workers with envious glares. Beelzebub led the party, fly hidden from human view. Behind them walked the two Dukes, eying the rousing streets around them suspiciously.

It was only natural; they hardly made a habit of walking in front of humans in full daylight. It was still much too early for anyone to give them more than cursory glances, though, so Hastur and Ligur hadn’t bothered to hide their unusual eyes, but the chameleon and toad were gone.

From their position at the back, Aziraphale had reasoned, they could keep an eye on all three demons at once and have a sort of private conversation in hushed whispers.

“Please, call her Eros dear. You wouldn’t want people calling you Crawley.” He murmured.

“But it’s her  _ name _ .”

“Her hellish name. Like ‘Beelzebub’ or ‘Dagon’. She didn’t start out with it. You two are actually a lot alike.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow over his glasses, “Oh yeah? How’s that then?”

“She had a name before the Fall and after the Fall she was given a new one by the denizens of Hell. But now she has a new name that better reflects her. A name she  _ chose _ .” Aziraphale smiled at Crowley and he felt the small twitch that indicated Eros had smiled as well.

“But if she’s a… what did you call it?”

“Primordial entity, neither of Heaven nor of Hell as far as I can tell.”

“Yeah, that, if she’s so bloody ancient and so bloody powerful why the Hell would she need a new name? Why doesn’t her old one matter?” Crowley scuffed his shoe against the pavement and the noise made Ligur flinch slightly, his eyes flashing yellow, he must not have expected it. 

Hastur reacted immediately, grabbing Ligur’s hand, and the shorter Duke relaxed. Aziraphale felt a warm glow blossom in his chest and he was familiar enough with her now to realise Eros’ deliriously happy reaction. After a moment he was able to push through the joyful flame and answer.

“I suppose for the same reason  _ your _ old name no longer matters to you.” Aziraphale muttered and then a thought struck him, and he chuckled, “Matter of fact Eros was convinced you were… well  _ Raphael _ .” Aziraphale was distracted by a passing sparrow visiting a window box and didn’t notice Crowley’s violent flinch, “Of course I told her he was long dead. She seemed rather upset by that news. She told me she used to be close with the Archangels, especially Raphael.”

Aziraphale did notice the flinch this time but Crowley brushed it off as stubbing his toe unexpectedly on the uneven pavement; pavement that Aziraphale could have sworn had been perfectly flat a moment ago.

The demon coughed, “So… so what happened at the house? I thought she said she couldn’t control you.”

Aziraphale felt a sudden and deep sense of shame well up in his chest, “She… panicked.”

“Yes, I noticed.” Crowley said, dryly.

“No, Crowley I mean… I’ve never felt _fear_ like it before. It was honest to goodness terror and a terrible, terrible pain.” The shame swelled to agonising proportions and Aziraphale gently nudged it with his own compassion, it shrunk just enough to let him breathe but didn’t fade. Crowley looked concerned.

“Angel? Something wrong?” Aziraphale shook his head.

“No, dear. Eros is just making it  _ very _ clear how sorry she is. It’s a tad uncomfortable.”

Hastur glanced behind himself, a candle-weak flicker of concern in his black eyes, “Everything alright?”

Aziraphale, who was still breathing a little hard, nodded reassuringly, “Yes, Eros is just feeling a bit remorseful.” The angel’s voice was slightly strained.

“Eros?” Hastur asked.

Crowley sighed, “Lilith. Don’t call her Lilith though, doesn’t like it.”

Hastur turned to Ligur and soon a hurried discussion was underway. Aziraphale finally buried the knot of remorse, despair, and regret somewhere deep inside of himself and was able to breathe properly again.

“So,” Crowley continued as they passed a graffitied sign that was so ancient the original name was illegible and all that could be read was the moniker above it reading ‘Crow’s Perch’, “She doesn’t like Satan.”

“No, it appears not.”

“And she panicked ‘cause she thought  _ I  _ was Satan?” Crowley raised his eyebrows again, his tone bordering on incredulous.

“She did call you Morningstar, but I don’t think she was really… here.”

Crowley whistled low, “Well that’s just great. A celestial atomic bomb with issues. She gonna have any more outbursts?”

A vehement surge of anger nearly overwhelmed Aziraphale and this time both Dukes turned to look at him, “N-no, quite sure on that.”

Further down the street Beelzebub hurriedly sped up past an innocuous alleyway. Glancing down the dingy cobblestone, Crowley paled visibly. Aziraphale chanced a look and saw the crumpled form of a middle-aged woman.

His stomach tightened. So Beelzebub had told the truth, the murderer really wasn’t restricting themselves to celestials.

Other than a few disturbed bins and a shred of white cloth, there was no sign of Gabriel.

“Well, they took the body, at least Heaven knows he’s dead.” Hastur muttered.

Beelzebub was still speed-walking away and the rest of the group had to hurry to keep pace with them. All four demons winced as they edged past the church and Ligur clutched Hastur’s hand tighter.

The flat adjacent to the church was part of a whole block of condemned buildings with various colourful signs indicating how dangerous the place was. The lock on the main entrance helpfully melted with a single look from Beelzebub and the door swung open on creaking hinges—the only hint of a ward shattering as the Prince walked in. The inside was about as dismal as the outside with black mould creeping up the plaster walls and most, if not all, the windows boarded over.

“ _ Perhaps this angel isn’t  _ **_too_ ** _ terribly picky _ …” Eros murmured.

Beelzebub glanced around and made for the stairs.

They made it maybe three steps before a column of blinding light erupted from the rotting carpet and formed a glowing cage around the Prince.

“Oh  _ fuck _ .”

Everyone froze in place and Aziraphale stared down at the mangled carpet. He just managed to glimpse Enochian runes painted on the floorboards beneath Beelzebub before a distinctly holy presence raced down the stairs. An angel, horrendously dishevelled with a wild look in his bright green eyes, practically  _ threw _ himself downstairs clutching what Aziraphale assumed to be a blessed dagger.

“Ha! Caught you! You… you…” The angel’s lime green eyes widened as he took in the sight of Beelzebub, Prince of Hell, literally buzzing with rage and barely held back by the circle. His triumph died on his tongue.

“Oh…” He said in a small voice.

The other angel, noticing that the incensed Prince wasn’t the only intruder, raised his eyes and met Aziraphale’s blue ones, “ _ Aziraphale _ ?”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows as he recognised a fellow Principality, “ _ Israfiel _ ?”

The other angel looked terrible. His verdant eyes were shadowed, his face was sallow, tan skin pulled too tightly over his cheekbones, and his clothes were an utter mess. The usual pale suit 11 was rumpled and torn with dark stains under his armpits and around his neck. 

Aziraphale heard Hastur snigger and Crowley was desperately trying to keep a straight face. The angel felt only a jolt of concern.

“Aziraphale, what… what in the Almighty’s name are you  _ doing _ ? Wandering around with—with  _ them _ .” Israfiel sounded rather delirious, the dagger shaking dangerously with fear, rage, or maybe just sheer exhaustion—it was too difficult to tell. With a wave of his hand, and a helpful boost from Eros, Aziraphale dispelled the holding circle trapping Beelzebub and miracled the dagger out of his fellow Principality’s hand—the blade clattering harmlessly down in the corner of the foyer. He ignored the brief flare of pain under his skin.

Israfiel gazed in shock at his empty hand before he cringed back as Beelzebub launched their small form at him, buzzing like a God-sent locust swarm.

“ **Beelzebub** !” Aziraphale snapped and the Prince looked up from where they were perched atop the offending angel and looked back at him, anger still evident in their watery eyes. Aziraphale continued in a calmer tone, “We need him.”

The Prince, reluctantly, clambered off the angel and then pulled him to his unsteady feet. The tumble had done nothing to improve his appearance and as Aziraphale stepped closer he caught the sense of something pungent and foul in Israfiel’s aura.

_ Fear _ .

“A-Aziraphale?” Israfiel was glancing nervously between the demons and Crowley, ever the one for dramatic timing, removed his sunglasses. Israfiel went paler still. Aziraphale sighed and he felt sympathy stir in Eros.

“Israfiel, it’s okay. I promise they won’t harm you.” He glanced meaningfully at Beelzebub who set their mouth in a thin line but nodded. 

Israfiel didn’t seem terribly convinced but wasn’t shaking so much anymore.

Aziraphale smiled encouragingly and allowed his aura to brush Israfiel’s to reinforce it, trying to project _ trust _ and  _ safety _ . Israfiel relaxed incrementally and the sheen of terror staining his eyes faded. His voice was far stronger as he spoke.

“What are you doing here, Aziraphale?”

“We need your help.”

* * *

_ 1 _ _ More like sugar with tea added for flavour but at least Aziraphale wasn’t drinking it himself. _

_ 2 _ _ Aziraphale wasn’t usually one for such modern biscuits but Crowley had insisted on having these one night when they had been severely drunk and the angel had been partial to them ever since. Beelzebub didn’t seem to care what type of biscuit they ate as long as it was sweet. _

_ 3 _ _ As it often did, i.e. see every decision he has ever made in the history of ever. _

_ 4 _ _ An impressive feat considering they were weighted down by ten blankets and a pillow. _

_ 5 _ _ He could feel it like a living thing clinging to the Prince, slowly chewing away; it was not a nice feeling. _

_ 6 _ _ Although he was completely perplexed by the angel emoji, followed by a plus and a devil emoji, which somehow equalled an eggplant and a question mark. Maybe Anathema had fainted on her phone. _

_ 7 _ _ Hastur thought it was because Richard was a bastard, in the modern sense, but Crowley argued he was motivated by his deformity which, in his words, meant he ‘wanted to stick it up to his arse of a brother’. _

_ 8 _ _ Holy. Fucking. Shit. _

_ 9 _ _ The Bentley, of course, had been left driverless when Beelzebub had pulled Crowley from it and it had subsequently careened into a nearby wall at roughly forty miles an hour _ _ 10 _ _ but had miraculously found its way to its usual (illegal) parking spot in front of the bookshop without even so much as a scratch. Even Crowley wasn’t entirely sure how. _

_ 10 _ _ In a ten mile an hour zone, naturally. _ __

_ 11 _ _ Which had become standard in Heaven after Gabriel had tripped one too many times on his robes. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet Israfiel everyone, I hope you like him 'cause this dork shall be showing up again.  
> Also I adore the idea of Hastur and Ligur being an established old demon couple with absolutely zero qualms about PDA. And the fact that it annoys Crowley just makes it better.
> 
> Next up we get to meet yet _another_ angel, but this one is much less adorkable; and the Metatron gets a mysterious message.
> 
> On another note, I'm currently in the middle of moving to Uni so updates might be slightly delayed if things don't go smoothly. So sorry in advance :)
> 
> Comments and kudos are welcome and highly appreciated!


	13. Trust Heaven to Escalate Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang meets yet another angel; Eros shows off her angry side; and the Metatron receives a mysterious message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning- temporary character death ahead.

Israfiel’s apartment was much nicer than the rest of the complex, which wasn’t saying much. Crowley glanced around the small obviously unused kitchen disapprovingly. Angels and their stupid refusal to ‘sully’ themselves with human food. 

The two Dukes had volunteered to stand guard in the apartment’s foyer; Crowley suspected they were doing a bit more than guarding but he soundly refused to check.

No need to traumatise himself twice.

Both he and Beelzebub 1 were watching Aziraphale watch Israfiel pace the apartment floor, the other angel wringing his hands in a ridiculously familiar way. His angel had his own hands clasped in front of him, the perfect picture of composure, and was watching the bedraggled Principality pace with what looked like mild interest.

That was another thing that irritated Crowley. He’d always been able to sense things when it came to Aziraphale. Patient annoyance with customers, barely restrained boredom when writing reports, flashes of rather sinful pride whenever he managed to score another rare book. All of it.

Now, however, with Eros in the picture Crowley was completely in the dark when it came to how Aziraphale was truly feeling. Was that boiling sense of shame from Eros? Were those flashes of anger from Aziraphale? Who exactly was feeling calm right now? It certainly wasn’t him.

After five minutes Aziraphale sighed, exasperatedly.

“Israfiel, is there anything you can tell us? You were here when it… when it happened.”

Beelzebub was as still as stone and Crowley pretended not to feel the sudden spike of pain that flared as obviously as a slap across the face. Israfiel, whilst no longer looking like he was about to faint, looked sickly. There were bags under his startlingly green eyes, and he seemed much too skinny to be a proper Heavenly soldier, he was still wringing his hands and Crowley wondered if that was something to do with being a Principality.

“Is he dead?” Israfiel asked, his voice weak and a little reedy.

Aziraphale grimaced and Israfiel gave a somewhat hysterical laugh.

“Its  _ real _ . I-I can’t believe its… its _ fucking _ real.” The other angel rubbed his eyes and choked back a sob, “I didn’t want to believe it. I mean… it can’t be real, can it?” He looked to Aziraphale searching for some sign of doubt. Aziraphale’s grimace didn’t falter.

Israfiel's shoulders slumped.  


Aziraphale tried a soft smile, “Did you see something? Did anything seem out of place?”

Israfiel wrung his hands tighter, “Not…” He cleared his throat, “Not that I saw. It got colder but that's not unusual for this time of year, nothing else really happened.”

Crowley frowned, “So it knew Gabriel was coming here?”

Israfiel looked faintly surprised at being spoken to by Crowley but he soon recovered, “I-I don’t know.  _ I _ only knew he was coming because Barachiel warned me ahead of time.”

Aziraphale considered this carefully, thoughtfully pursing his lips in that way Crowley so adored. Israfiel fidgeted uncomfortably and Crowley realised Beelzebub was staring directly at the angel, the fly emitting a low thrumming buzz that was just barely audible. He was suddenly very glad he wasn’t the one who had trapped the Prince in a holding circle.

“Where is Barachiel? He’s a bit too powerful to be here just to dole out a few blessings.” Aziraphale asked finally. 

Israfiel blinked and then winced when he finally tore his attention away from Beelzebub,  “I… erm, right… h-he’s in East London, checking up on some sort of suspicious activity.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, “What ssssort of sussspiciouss activity?” He didn’t mean to hiss but considering how pale Israfiel went it still had the desired effect.

“I don’t know, b-but it was important enough for G-Gabriel to send him to London.” Crowley’s eyebrow inched a little higher and Israfiel flinched, “That’s all I know! I s-swear!”

Aziraphale glared at Crowley but it was quick and without much conviction, “Are you sure there isn’t  _ anything _ else you remember was strange about that night?”

“N-no. It just got cold a-and th-then Ga-"  


Aziraphale held up a hand and silenced him, sparing a worried glance at Beelzebub, “No, no, that’s fine, Israfiel.”

Israfiel nervously glanced at Beelzebub who wasn’t so much staring at him as  _ through _ him. Crowley figured the Principality had never met a Prince of Hell before.

And was probably hoping he never would again.

Aziraphale looked thoughtfully at Israfiel, “Do you, by chance, happen to have a direct line to Heaven?”

Israfiel blanched, “N-No, I hand-deliver all my reports.” He swallowed and offered a shaky smile, “But Barachiel should have one. I-if he’s on some sort of mission he would have been issued one in c-case something went wrong.”

“Beelzebub,” Aziraphale prompted and the Prince started in surprise, “Would that do?”

Beelzebub nodded jerkily. Their eyes kept flicking to the window overlooking the church in the direction of the alley. Police cars were now pulled up in front of the alley’s entrance and Crowley watched as a stretcher cloaked in a sheet was hurriedly wheeled into the back of a waiting ambulance. Aziraphale noticed their staring and clapped his hands together; the sharp noise immediately catching the two demons’ attention.

Right.

More important things to do.

“Well, we need to go talk to Barachiel then. Israfiel you should probably return to Heaven, if… whatever it is that’s doing this comes back I doubt holding circles will help much.” Israfiel nodded, his gaze fixed on the window. Aziraphale glanced at Crowley and tipped his head in the direction of the door, a silent ‘ _ You go first, I’ll catch up _ ’. Crowley looked to Israfiel whose attention had shifted to focus on the cracked wooden floor, and nodded.

In an incredible show of bravery, he also grabbed Beelzebub’s sleeve and tugged the petite Prince along with him. It was very disturbing how easily they followed. They were already hurrying downstairs and he had almost closed the front door when Israfiel’s hushed voice stopped him.

“Aziraphale, I wanted to ask... well I wanted to ask if you… you aren’t…”

“Aren’t what?” Came his angel’s puzzled reply. Crowley held the door open with two fingers, just enough to hear.

“ _ Falling _ .”

Crowley’s stomach twisted. Even the mere mention of that… that horrific fate, of it happening to  _ Aziraphale _ of all people, made him feel like his insides were chewing themselves up and twisting into knots at the same time. Aziraphale seemed as shocked as the demon felt if his clipped answer was anything to go by.

“Of course not!”

There was a pregnant silence.

Israfiel sounded bewildered, “But that… that demon. The one with the snake eyes. He took  _ orders _ from you. You commanded a  _ Prince of Hell! _ ”

Aziraphale sighed, “Israfiel no one ‘took orders’. Crowley’s… a dear friend and Beelzebub is simply working  _ with _ me. If they had really wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t have been able to do anything.”

It stung a little to be dismissed as a ‘friend’ though Crowley understood how explaining their rather… delicate status may not help matters. However, Aziraphale was kidding himself if he thought he was powerless against Beelzebub with Eros to aid him. 

Israfiel didn’t appear to be finished.

“But have you seen yourself, Aziraphale? You’re ill.”

“I hardly think I look any worse than you do right now.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. Can’t you feel it? You feel  _ off _ .”

Aziraphale huffed, “I feel fine.”

“Do you?”

“Israfiel I appreciate your concern but believe me I’m fine.” Crowley heard Aziraphale’s footsteps approach the door and he was just about to race downstairs himself when Israfiel spoke again.

“Aren’t you scared?”

Aziraphale stopped, “Of course. I’m terrified.”

“Th-then how are you-?”

Crowley heard Aziraphale’s footsteps retreating and he risked a glance into the room. 

Aziraphale was hugging Israfiel.

The other angel looked surprised, scared, and confused for all of half a second before he dissolved into tears and sobbed into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s perfectly natural to be scared.” He heard his angel murmur. As he rubbed Israfiel’s back comfortingly the other angel’s suit began righting itself, frayed rips healing and stains scrubbing themselves clean. Israfiel pulled away, still hiccupping, to rub his eyes with a handkerchief he fished from the suit’s breast pocket.

“Thank you…”

Aziraphale’s smile could have ignited a sun, “It’s no trouble at all. You just get yourself home.”

Israfiel smiled back, still wiping at the tear tracks down his tan cheeks, “Do you want me to… to keep this a secret?”

Crowley was, for lack of a better phrase, fucking astonished. 

Israfiel had gone from accusing Aziraphale of  _ Falling _ 2 to willingly offering to keep this meeting a secret from Heaven. It must be something about Aziraphale’s smile…

Aziraphale, for his part, looked equally taken aback, “Oh… oh no. You really don’t have to-”

“I want to.” Israfiel replied, tersely, determination clearing any lingering trace of fear from his face, “If Upper Management finds out you’re working with demons I doubt Michael will be sympathetic. She’s been rather… tetchy since The Great Plan didn’t pan out and I doubt what happened to… to Gabriel will improve her mood any.”

Aziraphale sighed and then held out a hand, “Thank you, Israfiel, keep yourself safe.”

Israfiel clasped the offered hand and smiled warmly, “You too, keep your… friends out of trouble.”

Aziraphale laughed and stepped away, “I’ll try.”

Crowley hurriedly shut the door and took off down the stairs after Beelzebub and the Dukes.

***

Aziraphale nearly collapsed on the stairs down to the lobby. He caught himself just before his foot slipped and saved himself from crashing down the rotting steps. It took a few minutes for his legs to support him again and by that time the flaring pain under his skin had faded to a more tolerable ache. But that wasn’t the problem right now.

_ You shouldn’t have done that, Eros. _

Eros, sounding as if she was just behind his right ear, sniffed,  _ There isn’t much else I  _ **_can_ ** _ do. All I did was project a bit of understanding; it was nothing. _

Aziraphale could have groaned aloud if he wasn’t afraid of attracting Crowley from the flat’s foyer. He needed this time alone, even for just a minute.

_ No, you overexerted yourself just like when you helped me defend Crowley. You could barely speak after that. _ Not to mention the burning under his skin once again.

_ It was nothing, Aziraphale, honestly. You should be more worried about finding Barachiel. _

Aziraphale rubbed his forehead tiredly,  _ It  _ **_does_ ** _ matter, Eros. What happens if you exhaust yourself? It could destroy you or eject you from my body. I might never find you. _

Eros sighed,  _ I… you’re right. Fine. I’ll try to conserve myself more in future. But I  _ **_will_ ** _ help if I need to. _

_ Of course. _

Eros retreated once again and Aziraphale straightened his rumpled jumper, more glad than ever that he wasn’t wearing his pristine cream jacket and waistcoat. Places like these were very unkind to well-kept clothing 3 . He was just brushing away the last of the dust clinging to his jumper when Crowley poked his head around the stairway corner.

“You coming, angel?” Even Crowley’s hair had attracted a fine coating of dust and the effect made the demon look considerably older 4 ; it brought a smile to Aziraphale’s face.

“Yes, dear, just coming. Snagged my jumper on the banister.” Crowley grunted and turned back downstairs, Aziraphale right behind him. Beelzebub and the two Dukes were milling around the foyer, careful to avoid setting off anymore holding circles painted underneath the rotten carpet. Beelzebub looked up on his arrival.

“Finally. Can we leave now?” 

Perhaps Israfiel had been onto something with the whole ‘Commanding a Prince’ assumption but Aziraphale knew Beelzebub wasn’t asking  _ him _ .

“ _ Yes, we can go. You may want to dust yourselves off first, you all look like you’re coated in sugar. _ ” It was still very odd to feel his lips move to form someone else’s words, but he was used to it enough that he no longer accidentally bit his tongue when Eros had something to say. Suddenly losing control of your tongue makes it very difficult to predict when you can shut your mouth when you don’t know when your ethereal ride-along will be finished talking. 

Beelzebub seemed to have got used to Eros speaking through him well enough not to stare, the two Dukes hadn’t, however, and were currently whispering furiously between themselves.

Once outside 5 Aziraphale concentrated and stretched his senses, searching for another angel in London. It took him a bit to ignore the four demonic presences literally less than five feet from him and he also had to ignore Israfiel but eventually he was able to sense the much stronger presence of one of the Seraphim somewhere in London’s East End. He knew from experience how awful the East End used to be 6 and he knew it had improved a lot since he’d last been, but he’d nevertheless always preferred Soho situated in London’s West End.

As it was, Barachiel was in the East End and he had what they needed, so that’s where they were going.

“Well? He there, or is Israfiel sending us on a wild goose chase?” Asked Crowley, so intimately familiar with Aziraphale that he’d recognised his ‘ _ looking for other angelic presences please don’t interrupt _ ’ face instantly. Aziraphale nodded.

“He’s definitely there. Not sure exactly where, which probably means he’s warded wherever it is he’s stationed.”

Hastur snorted, “If it's anything like the piss-poor excuses for wards here it shouldn’t be a bother.”

Aziraphale sighed, “Barachiel’s a Seraph, Hastur, he’ll be much more proficient at setting wards than Israfiel. Principalities were never really expected to ward anything properly. I’m actually surprised Israfiel’s lasted so long.”

Crowley huffed a laugh, “So what about the wards on your bookshop, angel? They work fine.”

“I’ve been on Earth a lot longer than Israfiel, dear, I picked up a thing or two.” The pride in his voice was hard to hide but Aziraphale tried to anyway. Despite the fact that present company would more than likely approve of his self-indulgence.  


“Can we go now?” Beelzebub repeated, a note of irritation accompanying it this time.

It would take too long to walk so Crowley simply snapped his fingers and the four demons plus an angel and his passenger were miracled into another side-alley in London’s East End. Beelzebub straightened their coat and then strode out onto the street, Aziraphale, Crowley, and the Dukes following closely behind.

Crowley had, by happy coincidence—and, Aziraphale suspected, some help from Eros—managed to land them just two buildings away from where Aziraphale could sense the powerful presence of Barachiel. He couldn’t sense him directly, but he could feel his general angelic aura in the vicinity and all signs pointed to the slightly run-down hotel. The hotel itself was much nicer in comparison to Israfiel’s abode 7 and the staff were more than willing to ignore all five celestials with the help of several slight miracles; stopping any human from accidentally infuriating Beelzebub with a stupid question.

Once inside the hotel, Aziraphale was able to get a more accurate sense of exactly where Barachiel was but this was a fairly unspecific compass that had all five beings traipsing around the place for a good half hour before he was able to pin down the Seraph’s room to the second floor’s third corridor 8 . The door, as he had suspected, was very heavily warded.

Crowley hissed, “Shit, that’s powerful.”

Aziraphale allowed his sense to tentatively poke at the door’s wardings. They didn’t budge an inch.

“Beelzebub, is there anything you can do against this?” Aziraphale asked, looking to the Prince who was glaring at the door.

“Not without bringing down the building. Give me a week or zzzomething and then we can talk.”

Just behind him Aziraphale heard Eros sigh,  _ I can break it _ .

_ No- _

_ Aziraphale- _

_ I said- _

_ Aziraphale please. I’ve been nothing but a nuisance, let me help. _

Aziraphale nearly groaned aloud but relented. The pain under his skin flared dramatically but with a single gesture the warding shattered. There was an ear-splitting _ boom _ and the door swung open almost sheepishly.

“ _ There we go _ .” Eros said, not a little smugly, “ _ It was a decent job but Barachiel needs to work on his fluctuating time spheres. _ ” Aziraphale didn’t even bother asking for an explanation.

The room beyond the still-swinging door was ridiculously clean. It seemed to resent the intrusion of even Aziraphale, let alone the four demons, and he couldn’t hear any movement. The bed was made, the curtains drawn, and the little collection of tourist brochures was still neatly stacked on the nightstand.

“Either he isn’t here, or Barachiel really likes warding random hotel rooms.” Crowley muttered, mainly to himself. Aziraphale strode into the centre of the room and snapped his fingers. Warm light shone from the myriad of small lamps dotted around but all they illuminated was a light coating of dust on the carpet. A quick check around the room revealed nothing but more dust and certainly no heavenly phone.

“He izzzn’t here.” Beelzebub growled, throwing a glare at the perfectly innocent curtains as if they could possibly be hiding the Seraph.

Aziraphale wrung his hands again, “I was so sure I felt him.”

He was just about to turn to leave when Hastur gave a screech of pain. Aziraphale spun on his heel and saw Hastur, black-red blood spilling from between his pale lips, clutching the spreading stain over his abdomen. Ligur gave a choked cry and rushed to his aid.

Hastur’s assailant stood a few feet back, blessed and bloody blade shining hungrily, and a grin that spoke of barely contained glee. Aziraphale watched, completely frozen, as Barachiel lifted the sword again, this time to strike at Ligur, and he was just managing to push through his shock when Barachiel reeled back, clutching his bloodied face.

Beelzebub growled, their hands—now disturbingly insectile and exceedingly sharp—dripped with scarlet blood. With an inhuman shriek they launched themselves at Barachiel. The Seraph was barely able to dodge out of the way in time and even still he received a slash down his chest; the Prince’s chitinous talons slicing easily through the heavenly material of Barachiel’s suit.

Had Barachiel been armoured, Beelzebub’s claws would have done little but scratch the finish, but without it the Prince may as well be wielding five daggers on each hand as Barachiel danced to escape their reach. The Prince was having none of it. With another vaguely insect-like screech they slashed down with such force that it created a minor shockwave, shattering Crowley’s sunglasses, and tore through the Seraph’s suit and skin yet again, spraying a fair amount of blood in their face and a few precious droplets of the Seraph’s Grace. Barachiel’s crazed grin didn’t waver.

“I  _ knew _ it!” He crowed, raising the sword to block a particularly vicious blow from the Prince, “It  _ was _ you! Has been you all this time!” The angel laughed, a cruel barking noise.

Beelzebub didn’t deign to reply, their eyes consumed by a hellish red, exuding simple, and vicious,  _ fury _ . Barachiel didn’t seem to notice or he just didn’t care.

“I mean, come on, murdering your own kind just to scare Heaven? That’s a pretty stupid plan. Honestly,” He dodged another swipe and swung the blade fast enough to nick the Prince’s left cheek, “I expected  _ better _ . I honestly can’t believe Gabriel was stupid enough to believe your lies!”

Beelzebub gave a wordless, ugly, snarl and this time their swipe raked up the angel’s sword arm. Barachiel’s smile faded slightly but he simply switched hands. With a manic glint in his eyes, the angel plunged the sword upward, aiming for the Prince’s chest as their lunge revealed a brief weakness in their defence, his smile resurfacing in anticipation and-

“ **_ENOUGH!_ ** ”

Barachiel froze in place, sword mid-lunge. Aziraphale himself had not done a thing, he had simply been too stunned, too caught off guard, to even  _ think _ of somehow stopping Barachiel. Eros had not been so distracted. He could feel her writhing under his skin, pent up fury boiling and curling in on itself, just begging to be set loose. She didn’t let it, but he felt how  _ desperately _ she wanted to. And  _ bloody hell _ did it  _ hurt _ !

Eros had taken complete control again, but this time Aziraphale didn’t fight it. Eros wasn’t in a panic and about to hurt Crowley, she was  _ protecting _ him.  


***

Eros sank to her knees beside Hastur. Ligur was desperately trying to stem the flow of blackish blood flowing from the taller Duke’s abdomen but it was already pooling around him and the shorter Duke’s hands were slick with it. Hastur wasn’t moving, the only sign that he wasn’t dead being the slight flicker of his eyelids. 

Eros, through Aziraphale, felt her anger resurge but she clamped down on it  _ hard _ . 

Not now. Can’t hurt Aziraphale now.

With shaking hands not her own, she gently pulled Ligur’s soaked hands away from the wound. He struggled to hold them there, eyes flashing a manic and vibrant yellow, but Eros gently nudged him with her aura.

_ It's alright.  _

Ligur stopped struggling and Eros returned to Hastur. She focused on the wound.

It had skewered him through and through and the blood leaking was already slowing, not because of any demonic healing but because there was simply not enough blood left to spill. She felt her heart twist painfully. This wound was resisting her healing attempts, even her Grace, what was left of it, had no effect. There was only one thing she could do.

Gently, ever so gently, she reached up and closed Hastur’s fluttering eyelids before placing her fingers against his temple and  _ pushing _ .

With the barest whisper the Duke’s body crumbled into dust.

Ligur nearly shrieked, his yellow eyes brightening to almost white, “What-! Y-you-!”

Eros was breathing heavily, “ _ Discorporated… not… dead. _ ”

A warm hand on her— _ Aziraphale’s _ —shoulder made her turn and she met Crowley’s golden eyes with her own. He looked petrified and- oh, she was still Aziraphale wasn’t she? She smiled a little, trying for reassuring. At least Crowley hadn’t been hurt, she wasn’t sure if Aziraphale would be able to forgive himself if that happened and nor would she for that matter. Ligur was still shaking, pawing aimlessly at the stained carpet.

“ _ He’ll be fine, dear. I promise. He isn’t dead, I made sure of that _ .” Ligur didn’t seem satisfied and Eros couldn’t blame him. 

She stood and moved to Beelzebub. The cut on their cheek was bleeding the same blackish-red that Hastur had bled. She lifted her hand and caressed the cut, the skin mending underneath her shaking borrowed fingertips.

Beelzebub was looking at her with an odd expression in their eyes.

“You…” They breathed and Eros realised, rather belatedly, that her wings had manifested; a magnificent golden light illuminating the dusty hotel room and the angel still frozen in the room’s doorway.

She scowled at Barachiel and had to forcefully push her anger down lest she set the room aflame.

“ _ Beelzebub, would a prisoner satisfy the Princes enough to allow you back Down? _ ”

Beelzebub glanced at Barachiel appraisingly, a cold anger evident in their eyes, “Pozzzibly… I’ll have to do a  _ preliminary _ interrogation firzzzt.” Their smile was sadistic and Barachiel’s eyes were flicking from them to Eros, the pupils constricted with fear. 

Beelzebub licked some of the blood from their claws,  “Can’t rizzzk bringing in worthlezzz goodzz.”

***

The message was short, but its meaning could not be mistaken. Selaphiel had delivered it not two hours prior and the Metatron was still debating with himself, indecision warring with desperation.

_ ‘Situation is escalating, Enemy on the move. Meet at Babylon.’ _

The Metatron had read it several times to be sure.

Erebus was calling a meeting. 

At  _ Babylon _ of all places.

The ancient city had faced the full wrath of God, back when God had still taken a direct hand in things, and then it had been levelled. Ruins left to rot in the desert. 

If Erebus was heading there, it stood to reason Erebus knew something about the… recent events. Something important enough to eschew the usual use of cryptic notes and finally meet face to face—so to speak.

The Metatron couldn’t deny that he felt a certain excitement stir within him at the thought. For more than four thousand years this alliance had been entirely one-sided, but now Erebus, his mysterious ally, was asking for a meeting. Such was his glee that he nearly forgot why the meeting was needed in the first place; Gabriel still hadn’t returned much to his mounting disappointment. He had hoped the Archangel would be able to resist his traitorous mistress, but apparently not.

The Metatron scanned the note one final time, glaring at the elegant script written in red ink as if it could somehow explain Erebus’ sudden unprecedented decision, before he let it burn to cinders.

He recalled the first note he had ever received, hand-delivered by a very confused angel, and written on a single sheet of human-produced papyrus. Printed on the page, in the same scarlet ink and in the same careful hand, had been his Enochian name and the simple sentence that had sparked a cautious hope in him; a hope that Erebus’ later actions had ever so carefully fanned.

‘ _ I will help enable the destruction of the Enemy _ .’

It had simply been signed  _ ‘Erebus’ _ .

Of course, he had been suspicious at first, utterly convinced that this was some new trick of the Enemy’s. A feeble attempt to feed him false information. But his suspicion had quickly fallen away when he’d begun receiving more notes.

No demon would dare ruin so many of Hell’s carefully laid plans simply to trick the Metatron.

The notes were a Godsend, perhaps even literally if he was inclined to believe She still cared. They were unfailingly accurate and, disconcertingly, were usually delivered  _ before _ they were needed as if Erebus knew exactly when the information would be most useful. Every note had detailed some infernal plot or unhappy circumstance whose foiling or rectification would ultimately benefit Heaven and cause problems for Hell.

With its help, the Metatron had also been able to prevent important blessings from going astray and had even once warned Michael away from a fight she had been, apparently, doomed to lose 9 .

It had been, if not a happy relationship, a content one. 

And now Erebus wished for a meeting.

The Metatron, neglected Voice of God, was only too happy to oblige.

* * *

_ 1 _ _ This partnership still felt ridiculous and Crowley fully expected to wake up any second now. _

_ 2 _ _ And really, Crowley doubted he’d ever forgive the stupid green-eyed Principality for that, his insides were still clenched uncomfortably. _

_ 3 _ _ How he had hated the 14 _ _ th _ _ century… _

_ 4 _ _ Which, combined with the tight black clothes, made him look like an aging human Rockstar too stubborn to let go of the past. Technically Crowley was very old, and he was sentimental to a fault, but a Rockstar he was not, no matter how many times he insisted he could play guitar. _

_ 5 _ _ After a frankly impressive dust cloud had settled when all four demons had rigorously shaken themselves free of the clinging detritus, Aziraphale then having to do the same because of course the dust then settled on him. _

_ 6 _ _ The 1800s had not been very kind to the poorer residents of London and Aziraphale could hardly remember the amount of children he and Crowley had smuggled out of those dreadful factories in order to deposit them in orphanages where, by happy circumstance (or a demonic miracle), decent childless couples took a shine to them. _

_ 7 _ _ Then again almost anything was better than that dismal place. _ __

_ 8 _ _ Much to Hastur’s chagrin, as he had sworn he’d checked that corridor three times. _

_ 9 _ _ Despite the second eldest Archangel’s fighting prowess, nobody, not even a heavenly corporation, could have survived the human nuclear detonations in Japan. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned how much I like angst? Like, I like it a LOT.  
> Hastur _will_ be returning, don't worry. I just thought that this would be a good time to show that not every angel is secretly nice. Some are stabby, feathered arseholes.
> 
> And up next we get to see just how bad Eros had it with dear old Lucifer in Hell. I shall warn you now, it is _NOT_ pretty. Not at all. Heavy warning for torture and some body horror. Another warning shall be given at the beginning of the next chapter.
> 
> Comments and kudos are very, very welcome and much appreciated :)


	14. Tortured Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barachiel realises the depths of his mistake and Beelzebub's interrogation methods stir up bad memories for Eros.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: detailed description of torture ahead and several mentions of body horror/mutilation  
> Warnings apply after the ***

Aziraphale wasn’t at all sure how he felt about this.

From the tight feeling deep in his chest he surmised Eros wasn’t either.

The moment Crowley had miracled the five of them back to the bookshop, Beelzebub had dragged a shaking-yet-still-immobile Barachiel into the backroom, grinning all the way, and had proceeded to miracle up a metal chair and tie the Seraph to it using some of the most uncomfortable ropes Aziraphale had ever seen.

“Is this all really necessary?” He asked and Beelzebub barked a laugh.

“Truzzt me. For what he did I’m going  _ easy _ on the bazztard.”

Barachiel, for his part, seemed to have got over his terror when his temporary paralysis wore off and was glaring at Beelzebub with a fury Aziraphale had only ever seen in Michael’s eyes before.

“I did nothing wrong, filth,  _ you _ trespassed on  _ my _ domain. I had every right to attack that disgusting-”

Beelzebub slapped him across the face hard enough to split the angel’s lip. Aziraphale felt Eros flinch and the fire, now permanently burning beneath his skin, flared enough to make him gasp.

“Shut up. You’ll zzzpeak when I zzay.”

The Seraph looked dumbfounded, blood leaking from his split lip to dribble down his beige suit.

Unsurprisingly, he shut up.

Crowley migrated to sitting next to Aziraphale on the couch, glaring daggers at the trussed angel. They both watched Beelzebub stalking around the chair, diligently checking the ropes. Aziraphale noticed they had runes burned into their scratchy surface and belatedly realised why the Seraph hadn’t just miracled himself away. Beelzebub wasn’t a fool.

The Prince glanced up at Ligur and nodded. The Duke, who had been splitting his attention between staring morosely through the backroom’s window and glaring at the Seraph with poison-green eyes, reached into his coat and withdrew what looked like a small lantern.

It was jet black with opaque glass sides. Scrawling runes covered every spare inch of the twisted dark frame and the thing looked dreadfully incongruous amid the comfortable and familiar confines of his bookshop. Barachiel looked about as confused as Aziraphale felt but Crowley had stiffened like a cat ready to spring. Beelzebub took the lantern, unlatched one side, and then blew into it. The lantern shuddered and a sudden flash of red shone from inside, growing steadily and hungrily into a roaring flame that was clear even through the opaque sides. The Prince shut the lantern’s door and then strolled over to Barachiel who had gone a sickly green colour.

“You know what thizz izzz don’t you?”

The Seraph nodded, keeping his mouth shut tight.

Crowley was clenching Aziraphale’s hand tight enough to hurt and the angel felt Eros stir uneasily, mixing with his own apprehension.

“Beelzebub… are you… are you sure this is wise-?”

The Prince spared him a glance, “I don’t want to go Down there without knowing for zzure thizzz moron knowzz zzzomething valuable. Zzzo I’ll make zzzure he izzn’t lying.”

Aziraphale chose not to ask why Ligur had been carrying the hellfire lantern as he suspected Beelzebub had originally intended for it to be used against him—back when the Prince had been half-mad with grief and convinced Crowley held the key to their vengeance. 

From Crowley’s low hissing he suspected the demon had come to the same conclusion, but Beelzebub took no notice.

“Now,” They intoned, waving the lantern much too close to the Seraph’s face for the other angel’s comfort, “Care to tell me what you know? Or do I have to zztart getting creative with thizzz?”

It was rather hard to remember, what with the Prince’s petite size and the still-fresh memory of them bawling into his shoulder, that Beelzebub was one of Hell’s finest torturers and judging from Barachiel’s expression he had just remembered that little fact himself.

“Well? What’zzz new in Heaven?”

Barachiel gulped silently, “H-Head Office s-s-sent me here a f-few months ago. When G-Gabriel went m-missing last night Michael… Michael pulled me from my mission immediately a-and sent me to investigate. I was searching the city for him when y-you broke my room’s wards.” 

Beelzebub stiffened noticeably but their voice was deceptively mild, “Gabriel’zz dead.” 

If Aziraphale hadn’t been holding the Prince earlier this afternoon as they sobbed themselves into silence, he would have been utterly convinced that Beelzebub sounded indifferent to the news of the Archangel’s death, perhaps even pleased. Barachiel gaped up at them.

“He’s…” He swallowed nervously, a tongue darting out to wet his lips and wincing when he brushed over the split, “He’s  _ dead _ ?”

Beelzebub’s lips curled upwards in a cruel smirk although Aziraphale could see their hand behind their back was clenched so tightly their claws had pierced their chitin-like skin and small rivulets of dark blood were running down their knuckles, “Yep. Zzzaw the body myzzelf.”

They set the lantern down carefully on the nearby table and crouched a little to look Barachiel in the eye, “Now, what’zz Michael planning, hmm?”

As Barachiel struggled to push words out through his stammer Aziraphale felt Eros shudder, the imagined movement sending a quick ripple of pain under his skin, but she remained silent.

“She… She’s convinced Hell’s behind the murders a-and the Metatron gave her permission to command the armies. She's recalling a-all field-agents as we speak and she's personally commanding a squad in order to deal with th-the uh, the infernal threat.”

Beelzebub growled, “Zzo Heaven thinkzz we’re behind thizz.”

Barachiel nodded hurriedly and the Prince groaned, “The one bloody time it’d be uzzzeful and he goezz and getzz himzzzelf killed…” They lapsed into silence, one claw gently scratching at their chin.

Abruptly they spun to face Ligur, “Go Downstairzz, tell ‘em I’m bringing a prize that’ll zztop Michael in her fucking trackzz. Give uzz zzzome breathing room. Oh, and tell Hazztur I zzaid hi.”

The Duke took one last minute to glare at Barachiel before he vanished in a puff of dirty smoke smelling vaguely of rotting meat. Seemingly satisfied, Beelzebub turned back to their captive and grinned. Without looking up they spoke, “You two won’t wanna zzzee thizzz. Go and make out or zzzomething upzztairzzz—or don’t. Might be awkward with  _ her _ in there.”

Aziraphale started, “Surely you aren’t going to-!”

Beelzebub sighed, “No. No torture. Normally I wouldn’t care about the delicate zzzenzzibilitiezz of an angel, but I’ll make an exception for you.” All of a sudden the cruel smile was back and Aziraphale felt both he and Eros shudder in tandem, “Bezzzidezz we’re juzzzt going to have a little  _ chat _ . Juzzt to clear up a few thingzzz before I prezzent him to the Council. We wouldn’t want the dear angel to make a fool of himzzzelf now would we?” Barachiel looked just about ready to cry and Crowley gently took Aziraphale’s arm, tugging him towards the stairs leading to the apartment above.

“Come on, angel.”

“But-!” 

“They won’t hurt him. Now come on.” Aziraphale let Crowley drag him upstairs and he breathed a sigh of relief once he stood in the cluttered mess that was his tiny apartment. Crowley slid off his glasses, tucked them into a pocket, and then whirled to face Aziraphale all in one smooth fluid motion, serpentine eyes narrowing in thought.

“Ssso…” Crowley said, his tongue flicking out briefly on the ‘s’, “What’s the plan, angel?”

“Plan?” Aziraphale repeated, a bit cluelessly. He felt Eros curl tightly in his chest, which hurt, but he paid no mind.

“Yes, a plan. Or are we going to have to follow Beelzebub into Hell?” Crowley sounded strained and Aziraphale sighed. In all honesty he’d been far too busy first with fainting, then with Eros, and  _ then  _ with Beelzebub to even try to  _ think _ along the vague lines of a plan. He’d been riding through this confusing and painful journey by the seat of his proverbial pants with nary a passing thought to anything other than the present moment. He’d actually rather been hoping Crowley had come up with one.

There was a thump from downstairs and a slightly muffled curse from Beelzebub, Eros tightened further and Aziraphale carefully nudged her mentally, urging calm, he received nothing back except a further twist. He grimaced.

“I don’t know, my dear. I know you aren’t very keen on returning to Hell and neither am I to be perfectly frank. And as far as I can tell Eros isn’t particularly fond of the place either.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows, “That’s putting it mildly. She nearly took my bleeding head off with those wings of hers.”

“I know dear, and she is sorry, b-believe… me…” Aziraphale clutched at his chest and rubbed at it, trying to relieve the knot that was tightening just under his ribcage.

“Angel? Are you alright?” Crowley placed a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, and the contact made the angel relax, if only incrementally.

“F-fine. Eros she… she’s just a bit scared.” He managed to stammer, the knot no longer tightening but definitely not loosening. Crowley hissed a curse and gently led Aziraphale to the bed the angel had left tucked in the tiny bedroom. The mattress was suspiciously soft when Aziraphale sat down 1 but he paid it no heed. Instead he focused all his energy on trying to unknot the tightness in his chest.

For all the good it did him. It felt like a rock had settled just behind his sternum, pressing into his useless lungs and compressing his obsolete heart, but he knew it was more than that. No physical weight could press against the very fabric of his very soul and no mortal pain was quite as patiently agonising as the fire that continued to crackle just under his skin.

Dimly he was aware of Crowley frowning.

“Angel, you’re burning up.”

Aziraphale looked up at that, his vision swimming from the sudden movement, “What?”

Crowley’s concerned gaze swayed in front of him and Aziraphale pressed a hand to his forehead to rub at his eyes. He hissed in pain as his fingers contacted the skin, it felt like he had just brushed a naked flame. Crowley was saying something but Aziraphale couldn’t hear as he mumbled, “It's nothing… just a bit… of pain…”

He could feel Eros writhing beneath his skin, her fear seeping into his own soul. He could  _ feel _ the hungry presence of the hellfire just below his feet; a ferociously gnawing flame that he was all too familiar with.

But how could that be? He’d never even been  _ near _ hellfire before.

“Crowley… something’s wrong…”

The last thing Aziraphale felt before darkness closed in, swallowing up those gorgeous demonically golden eyes, was the presence in his chest, behind his eyes, under his skin whispering something.

A tiny something.

More like a whimper.

_ I’m sorry _ .

***

_ He’d come back soon, she knew. _

_ He was never gone long. _

_ She had no idea how long she had been here. There was precious little to distract her unless he decided to try something new. He’d given up on using her memories after she had simply stopped responding to it and had moved on to a more traditional line of torture; namely physical. _

_ Her wings, once proud and regal, with her largest set fanning out an impressive 35 feet, were now ragged and stained a deep grey. He hadn’t seen fit to remove them, not when they could still be useful, and for that infinitesimal comfort she was grateful. Despite this, he  _ **_had_ ** _ seen fit to wedge infernal metal rings between the joints of each set and then string the whole macabre thing through with jet black chains, stretching each trembling limb out to its fullest extent and allowing not even a twitch of extraneous movement. _

_ Half the time she forgot she even had wings until Lucifer decided he was bored. _

_ The creaking sound of metal made her look up. _

_ Speak of the… Devil, wasn’t it? That’s what he called himself now. _

_ “Ah, Lady Love! How long has it been?” Lucifer grinned, showing off teeth like daggers, the deep black of his eyes flickering with hellish red light. Love said nothing, what could she possibly say? She had no idea herself how long it had been since she’d last seen him. He could have been gone for barely ten minutes and it would have felt like eternity. _

_ Lucifer sighed, although he didn’t sound disappointed, “Still resolute, huh? Never mind. I like that about you, my never-broken doll.” He reached up to run an ice-cold finger down her cheek. She counted it as a personal victory that she withheld a flinch. _

_ Lucifer chuckled and then stepped away, “Beelzebub finally broke today. You should have seen it, Love. It was… well glorious in a way. The way they bowed to me, completely and utterly obedient. That technique you showed me really helped. I would never have thought about twisting their legs off, works wonders I tell you!” _

_ Love said nothing. She remembered well enough the dreadful, choking, agonising feeling of her own legs being snapped off. _

_ Lucifer continued, tapping his chin thoughtfully, “It’s taking longer than I thought to break Asmodeus. But, fortunately, he’s been growing horns! Actual horns! Now  _ **_that_ ** _ I can exploit. Right, Love?” _

_ She said nothing and waited for the pain slowly growing inside her skull to finally break the skin. She’d never been forced to grow horns before, and she decided she didn’t particularly care for it; it was better than having to grow extra limbs, but it still wasn’t pleasant. _

_ Or maybe it was excruciating. _

_ She wasn’t sure anymore. _

_ It took maybe an hour for the double row of horns to push themselves out of her head, just under her hairline. A few lines of sluggish red ran down her face, cutting new tracks in the dried blood already caked there. Lucifer watched with a small smile playing across his pale face. _

_ “Asmodeus has got nothing on you. Colour me  _ **_impressed_ ** _!” He stepped in front of her again and gently ran a claw around the grooves of the horns she couldn’t see, “They’re gorgeous, Love. Much better than Asmodeus’. Better than mine, I think. Such a pity they must go to waste. Really it is.” _

_ She waited until Lucifer stopped admiring the curling horns and stepped away, rummaging around for a tool she was much too familiar with. _

_ “What do you think, Love?” He asked, twirling the hooked spike experimentally in one hand, “Tear them off or simply mutilate?” He didn’t wait for an answer and Love stifled a tiny gasp as he swung and the hook smashed into one of the horns. Lucifer hummed, wriggling the hook’s tip in the soft flesh previously hidden under the hard outer shell, and her eyes began to water but she resolutely  _ **_did not make a sound_ ** _. She wasn’t about to give him that satisfaction, not for something as mundane as this, never again. _

_ “Hmm, no that’s not doing it for me. Amputation it is then.” He dropped the hook and she heard it hit the rock with a dull clank. The impact made the chains inserted through her palms rattle and a familiar ache radiated up through her arms. Oh yes, she’d quite forgotten about that. Whoever Abaddon was, she felt sorry for them. At least Lucifer had eschewed from forcing the chains through her gut and curling them around her spine, it would be rather hard to forget about them then. _

_ Her attention was dragged away from her pity when the sound of sawing gently started up. A sharp agony began building up inside the abused horn but the pain was nothing new so she merely tried to find a more comfortable place to hang from her wings, maybe she should lean to the right a bit more, let the lower set take some of the strain for a bit. _

_ With a wet crunch and a sharp throb of wretched pain she felt the horn give way. Hot blood spilled from the stump, streaming so thickly she had to close her right eye as it poured down her face in a torrent of gold and scarlet. Through the fog of blood and searing pain consuming her vision she was aware of Lucifer chuckling. _

_ “Wow. I honestly didn’t expect it to be  _ **_that_ ** _ messy. I really wish you could see this, Love, its  _ **_beautiful_ ** _.” He clenched the horn in his free hand, an elegantly twisting spiral of soft gold tipped with silver, dripping dark blood. Lucifer dug a finger into the soft, torn tissue of the horn’s stump embedded in her scalp and grinned at the involuntary whimper it drew from her. She clamped down on the dry, choking sob threatening to drag its way from her chest and bit her lip instead. She tasted salt and hoped desperately that it was blood and not tears. _

_ Lucifer withdrew the intruding finger and studied the bloodied digit, “You know the others don’t bleed like you do. It’s all ichor and oil with them, but you?” He ran his tongue up the clawed finger and sighed, “You, dearest Love, still bleed Grace and it tastes like  _ **_Creation_ ** _. Absolutely addicting, this stuff…” _

_ He trailed off and Love couldn’t help a shudder that rattled the chains so much the ache reached her chest. _

_ “You know what… I could use that.” He studied the remaining horns carefully, “I can’t let it all go to waste now, can I?” _

_ With a suddenness that took her by surprise Lucifer took hold of the second horn on her right side and raised the crooked, blunt saw into position, “Hold your breath, Love, this will hurt quite a bit.” _

_ In the end she couldn’t help shrieking. Her ravaged throat stung with the sudden influx of hot blood and she ended up choking as often as she screamed. Lucifer said nothing of it but through her tears she could see his elated grin as he held a dirty bottle to her forehead, letting blood trickle in. Four golden horns were soon laid in a neat row on the small stone table in the room’s centre and she watched distantly as Lucifer began setting down small bottles full of her blood down next to them. The liquid swirled and glowed with flashes of brilliantly golden Grace surfacing amongst the sludgy scarlet. She imagined she should probably be feeling sick or at least mildly disgusted. _

_ She only felt  _ **_empty_ ** _. _

_ “They don’t remember you, Love.” _

_ She looked up, blinking through the drying blood. Lucifer was studying her carefully, his blond hair drawn back by the row of stubby horns along his brow, his bat’s wings twitching thoughtfully behind him. _

_ “I was speaking with Crawley the other day, trying out that thing we did last week. Remember? The one where I stick my thumbs in your eyes and  _ **_twist_ ** _? Stupid thing was shrieking for me to stop—honestly, I’ve seen better pain tolerance in fucking  _ **_ants_ ** _ —but I was bored so I did. Left him blind, though, no point to it otherwise until we restarted, so I decided to ask him what he thought about  _ **_Her_ ** _ abandoning us.” Lucifer sauntered over to the table and perched on its edge, idly twirling one of her horns in his hand, splattering himself with darkening clotted blood. _

_ “I got the usual spiel, ‘Oh I hate  _ **_Her_ ** _ ,  _ **_She’s_ ** _ a selfish bitch’ the whole nine yards but I’ll give him points for making up a few more… colourful expressions. Anyway, there we were chatting away about the fucking injustice of all this, when I mention  _ **_you_ ** _.” _

_ Love tried to lean forward, utterly hooked by the story despite herself, but quickly stopped when the movement shot spikes of pain through her wings. Lucifer didn’t even pause. _

_ “Crawley looks at me—well not  _ **_looks_ ** _ , he still didn’t have any eyes—but he’s faced in my direction and I can tell he’s confused. ‘Love?’ He says, ‘Who’s that?’. Now I had to laugh at that but he’s still just fucking dumbstruck, utterly clueless. ‘Stupid demon’, I think. Who could forget you, Love? But the more we talked the clearer it became.” He slid off the table and strolled over to her, stroking his cold finger down her cheek, cutting a track in the blood. _

_ “You have been  _ **_forgotten_ ** _!  _ **_She_ ** _ hates you that much, even  _ **_I_ ** _ didn’t get that!” He laughed; a genuine, deep sound that made her ears ache as her stomach filled with ice. _

_ Forgotten? _

_ Had she truly been judged so harshly for her compassion? _

_ Lucifer sighed and his gentle grip suddenly became fierce, gripping her chin so tightly the claws dug deep into the flesh beneath her lip, “See? I told you. You’re  _ **_mine_ ** _. All that sacrifice, all your efforts to save your precious demons, and who’s going to save you?” He grinned, “Can’t save something that never existed.” _

_ He let her go and moved back to the table, selecting a rather blunt mace, “Now, I’ve been having a little problem with Dagon. Her scales are rather difficult to circumvent for want of any sort of precision so I thought perhaps a little brute force might soften her up.” _

_ He eyed her torso critically and raised the mace, “Do try to hold still, Love, I only want the ribs. Don’t want to shatter your arm just yet.” _

* * *

_ 1 _ _ For those of you wondering, yes Crowley could have made Aziraphale’s bed softer instead of performing a complex miracle to get them both to his apartment and into his bed, but Crowley is nothing if not an opportunist. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day? What am I, mad?
> 
> Anyway, yes. This chapter. Wow. This one's a doozy. As you all know I adore Luci from Lucifer(TV) which is why I wanted to make this bastard here as unlike him as possible. So, let me introduce you to _my_ Lucifer, the heartless bastard who tortured his army into fanatic loyalty and who used poor Eros as a training dummy. And yet, despite how much I despise him and his actions, I loved writing his dialogue. I dunno what it is but I absolutely love writing smart-alec villains with sadistic-streaks and a tendency to monologue.
> 
> But yeah, the first truly angsty chapter of many. Buckle yourselves in, kids, this is gonna be a bumpy ride.
> 
> Next up; Crowley freaks out; Dagon reappears; and Asmodeus is unimpressed.
> 
> Comments and kudos are very, very welcome and much appreciated :)


	15. Un-Welcome to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eros has a rather worrying realisation; the gang just barely manages to avoid Michael; and Asmodeus is less than impressed.

Crowley had shouted himself hoarse by the time Aziraphale woke up. The moment his angel's eyes cracked open he smothered him in a hug. If he wasn’t careful this was going to turn into a habit.

“Fuck, angel, you’ve gotta stop doing that. It’s-"  


“ _ I’m sorry _ .”

The soft pleading voice drew Crowley up short and he pushed away from Aziraphale. Golden eyes met golden irises and Crowley hissed, “You again.”

Eros covered Aziraphale’s face with his angel’s hands and sobbed, “ _ I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to... I’m sorry... _ ”

Crowley felt his distrust slacken a little. Demon or not this was something he couldn’t stand for. 

With steady hands he gently pulled Eros to his chest as she continued to sob brokenly into her borrowed hands. Gently, he began rubbing her back in slow soothing circles and the sobs eventually petered out into soft hiccups.

Eros pulled away, rubbing at Aziraphale’s face to wipe away the—thankfully watery—tear tracks.

“ _ I’m sorry, Crowley. I never meant for this to happen, not to you and certainly not to… to Aziraphale. _ ” She blinked her disturbingly gold eyes, “ _ I… I shouldn’t be here _ .”

Although a part of Crowley, a jealous vindictive part, agreed whole-heartedly with the whispered statement, he shook his head, “Look, I’m not exactly thrilled with our situation here, the timing’s rotten for a start, but we can deal with this. I’ve dealt with this before. I’m just thankful you were only out of it for a few minutes this time. Aziraphale likes you, I can tell, if you let me speak with him, I’m sure we can think of something to-”

Eros shook Aziraphale’s head, his platinum curls glowing a lovely, soft white in the warm light of the bedroom lamp. But now was not the time to be distracted.

“ _ No, no it’s- no I just… I  _ **_can’t_ ** _ stay. _ ” Her voice wobbled slightly, and Crowley frowned.

“Yeah, I wasn’t inviting you to live with us but-"  


“ **_I’M KILLING HIM, CROWLEY!_ ** ” Eros immediately covered Aziraphale’s mouth with his hands, golden eyes wide in either shock or shame, Crowley couldn’t tell.

“What the  _ fuck _ did you just say?” He must have heard her wrong yet the ringing in his ears from her bellow begged to differ. Eros uncovered Aziraphale’s mouth, his bottom lip wobbling in that particular way it always did in the face of something that worried him beyond the usual constant fretting.

“ _ I… This corporation isn’t suited to my presence. _ ”

Crowley just made an inarticulate sort of ‘ _ Ngk _ ’ noise.

Eros sighed and worried at Aziraphale’s lip with his teeth.

“ _ I’m too powerful for Aziraphale’s body and I’m… I’m destroying it. I-I didn’t notice before, w-well I did feel that  _ **_something_ ** _ was off, but I had never even considered… By Creation I am such a fool! _ ” She punctuated her comment by burying Aziraphale’s face in his hands again.

Crowley.exe attempted a reboot, which worked.

Kind of.

“ **YOU’RE FUCKING KILLING HIM?** ” Eros shrank back from Crowley’s sudden outburst and he immediately felt guilt trickle in amid the ocean of sudden righteous anger 1 . 

What had Aziraphale done to possibly deserve this?

Eros was quivering like a leaf and Crowley realised he had shoved her up against the bedroom wall, pressing his angel’s body into the plaster until it started cracking. He let her go and she gently rubbed Aziraphale’s collarbone.

“Ssssorry I-”

She held up a hand, a gentle smile curving his angel’s lips, “ _ You needn’t apologise, Crowley. I’m at fault here. Not you. I should have realised this sooner before it got so… dire _ .”

Crowley stiffened and he felt that anger try to catch again. With considerable effort he kept his tone light, “Dire?”

Eros looked at him, her lack of pupils or irises giving the eerie impression she was looking everywhere at once, “ _ His body is starting to collapse. And it’ll damage his soul before long. _ ”

Crowley barely held back a snarl, “So.  _ What _ —the  **_fuck_ ** —do we  _ do _ ? You need a new host? We just so happen to have one handy downstairs s’long as you don’t mind a bit of rope burn-”

“ _ No, Crowley. Barachiel will fare no better than Aziraphale. Possibly worse considering I’m more powerful now than I was when I first attached myself to Aziraphale. It might just kill him, Seraph or not. _ ”

Crowley wasn’t sure he saw much of a downside, but Eros had clearly sensed his ambivalence and was glaring at him in a disturbingly similar parody of Aziraphale’s own glower. He reflexively swallowed down his sarcastic retort and instead muttered, “Do you have a better idea 2 ?”

Eros sighed, “ _ I do. But I hate it and neither you nor Aziraphale will like it much either. _ ”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, “Well with the mood suitably ominous, care to tell me what your plan is, or do I have to guess?” He hadn’t really meant to sound so tetchy—well given the circumstances he supposed he did have the right—but the roiling ocean of fury, regret, and worry currently having a party in his stomach had yet to rear its ugly head so he was left with a sort of impatient calm.

Not too terribly different from how he’d been feeling these past few weeks, to be honest.

Eros smiled a small, small smile, “ _ We have to go to Hell. _ ”

“We  _ WHAT? _ ” He spluttered.

“ _ Hell; we have to go to Hell. _ ”

Crowley made a few inarticulate noises until he finally wrangled his tongue into asking the age-old question, “ _ Why? _ ”

Eros gently placed Aziraphale’s hand over Crowley’s, squeezing gently. A sort of soothing calm filled him, smoothing the edges of his fear and stopping his imminent panic attack in its tracks.

“ _ My body, my original body, is in Hell. If we get there in time I can… jump ship as it were. Remove myself from Aziraphale. Then he should be able to heal himself. _ ”

Crowley was just going to open his mouth, a snide and rather pessimistic comment on his lips, when Beelzebub marched up the stairs. They no longer looked like some sort of human-insect experiment gone wrong but the frown creasing their face was ten times as disturbing. 

That was a  _ WeHaveaProblem _ frown.

“Crowley, we have a problem.” Sometimes he hated being so intuitive.

“What?”

Beelzebub glanced at Eros, taking note of the tear-stained face and golden eyes before apparently filing it away for later, “Hell’zzz juzzt recalled all our agentzz. Izzrafiel’zz gone, too. It won’t be long before Michael'zzz decidezz to zzzend a little zzearch party to find Barachiel. If we aren’t gone zzoon, we won’t be leaving at all, at leazzzt not without wearing zzome fancy new Heavenly manaclezz or having our headzz removed.” They grimaced, “I know you don’t want to return to Hell, and I know for a  _ fact _ it won’t be pleazzant for Aziraphale but-"  


“We’ll go.”

Beelzebub gaped, “You will?”

Crowley grimaced, “Yep. Eros just deigned to inform me we have a time bomb on our hands and the only thing that can defuse it is in the Pit.”

“Bomb?” Beelzebub repeated, blankly.

“Yes, that would apparently be me. It would explain the recent pain, anyway.” 

Crowley nearly jumped out of his skin. Aziraphale was smiling, a little weakly sure, but it was a smile that made his mostly blue eyes sparkle. A surge of sickly sentimentality and love threatened to choke Crowley, but he resolutely clamped down on it, Aziraphale looked tired enough as it was without having Crowley strangling him in another hug and Crowley sure as shit wasn’t going to have their first proper kiss be witnessed by  _ Beelzebub _ of all people.

Beelzebub raised a petite eyebrow, “You’re going to explode?”

“ _ No, _ ” said Eros, “ _ Well, maybe, but in either case it won’t end well if we don’t go. _ ”

The Prince shifted their attention to Crowley, and they nodded towards the stairs, “You can explain on the way down.”

***

Each step felt like walking on broken glass but Aziraphale endured it with a tight smile. He’d followed Crowley down with Beelzebub as the demon attempted to explain the frankly surreal situation. It didn’t really feel real to him either. The dream had been more coherent than the others but still much too vague to remember anything but a few fuzzy shapes and a lot of red.

And pain.

So, so much pain.

Even just thinking about it made his hands shake. What had nearly broken him in the face of this tidal wave was the sheer variety of the agony. It had burned, stung, seared, ached, shattered, spiked, and torn.  _ Eros _ had been hurt so, so much—and he knew all that he’d felt had merely been an echo. A ripple of half-forgotten memory, almost as ancient as Aziraphale himself and containing more residual pain than he’d ever felt before in his life.

Eros was still trying to make up for it.

The moment she had relinquished control he’d felt her retreat as far as she possibly could whilst still remaining with him. With her went the sharpness of the agony beneath his skin and his limbs no longer felt so leaden. It still hurt but now every time something flared because of a slight misstep or a spike of some strong emotion she was there, drawing the worst of the pain away and leaving nothing but a simple and steady ache in its place. He could deal with aching pain. Much better than stabbing pain at any rate, although she could do little about the pain in his feet; the constant pressure of standing was doing him no favours.

It had surprised him when he, Crowley, and Beelzebub had reached the bookshop’s backroom and a new demonic face was waiting for them.

Dagon grinned, “Didn’t expect to see you again, Crowley.”

Crowley smiled back, his lips pulled too wide and too thin for it to be genuine, “Likewissse.”

The Lord of the Files shifted their gaze to Aziraphale. Her pale irises regarding him carefully, “You’re sure she’s in there, my Lord?” She tilted her head as if puzzled, the light catching her silvery facial scales like glitter.

“Pozzzitive.” The Prince replied. They moved past Dagon, who was still staring at Aziraphale with an odd look in her eyes, and stopped in front of Barachiel.

The other angel appeared unhurt if one did not count the rope burns 3 . He did, however, cringe violently away when Beelzebub went to untie him. Aziraphale noticed the twisted lantern had vanished.

“Zzztop zztruggling.” Beelzebub snapped and Barachiel stopped immediately. Once the rope fell away, he cradled his burned wrists with a grateful whimper.

“Now, you’re gonna get up and go to Dagon and zztay zztill and quiet. Or elzze we go down memory lane again.” Barachiel, to Aziraphale’s astonishment, shot to his feet and hurriedly made his way to the fish demon’s side. Dagon’s grin grew wider.

“Wow, you did a number on him, my Lord. Shaking like a bloody leaf.”

“Thank you, Dagon.” Beelzebub muttered, miracling away the rope and chair with a flick of their wrist. Aziraphale realised his mouth was hanging open and quickly shut it. 

A pulse of energy far above them all made them start in surprise. Beelzebub lifted their head and stared at some fixed point on the ceiling, their lip curled in a snarl, “We gotta go. Now!”

Aziraphale felt the powerfully angelic presence precious minutes before the Archangel Michael crashed through his roof and by that time all she saw, to her amazement and incalculable anger, was the remnants of sulphuric smoke dissipating amongst the squashy armchairs and a single silvery scale on the coffee table.

***

Hell hadn’t changed.

Or at least the smell hadn’t.

Once again Aziraphale had to dry heave into his arm a few times before his gag reflex relaxed. Crowley and Dagon pulled equally disgusted faces; Beelzebub didn’t even wince; and Barachiel doubled over as he retched 4 . 

Beelzebub sighed and pulled the Seraph to his feet, marching him forward.

This part of Hell was new to Aziraphale. This wasn’t the leaky corridor that led to the specially built execution room. This was a semi-circular chamber carved of smooth black stone with a single gobsmacked demon sitting at a small desk next to the only exit. Beelzebub marched smartly up to the desk and glared at the demon with what Aziraphale was now recognising as the ‘ _ Don’t fuck with me _ ’ look.

The demon reached for an ancient-looking leaky fountain pen and hurriedly scribbled in a very messy and heavily stained pad, “P-Prince Beelzebub and Lord D-Dagon with…?”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes, “With one prizzoner and two… gueztzz.”

The demon, who Aziraphale noticed had a tree frog clinging to his neck just under his messy mop of violet hair, peered past Beelzebub to stare at Crowley and Aziraphale. His red-rimmed eyes widened at the sight of Crowley and he bit his lip hard enough to draw a dark line of blood at the sight of Aziraphale.

The angel could feel his terror from here.

The demon hastily scribbled down the words ‘Angelic Prisoner’ before looking up, reluctantly, at the pair again. Crowley grinned, “Crowley. A.J. Crowley if you wanna be fancy about it.”

The demon did not look like he wanted to be fancy about anything and glanced at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale smiled kindly, ignoring the small ache the gesture sent through his jaw, “Just Aziraphale.”

The demon nodded jerkily and scribbled into the notepad again. Beelzebub huffed in barely concealed irritation and nudged Barachiel forward, sparing no backwards glance. Crowley made to follow and Aziraphale kept close to his side, Dagon trailing after them. 

Before he left the room, Aziraphale made a tiny gesture with his fingers and the demon squeaked in surprise as the heavily stained notepad was suddenly replaced with a violet one filled with neatly written names and accompanying a brand-new set of biros. Neither Crowley nor Dagon noticed the barely perceptible flare of joy but Aziraphale did and he managed another tiny smile as he walked further into Hell.

It was just about all he could do to drown out the constant shivering terror deep in his chest.

Beelzebub led them from the receiving room to a frankly ridiculously over-crowded corridor. They buzzed a sigh and shoved Barachiel to Aziraphale before turning back around and parting the demonic sea with nothing more than glares and grimaces. The low buzz of chatter nearly died out when Aziraphale stepped into the corridor after them with Barachiel and Crowley in tow.

Demons of every possible shape and colour stared at him like he was some sort of rare and exotic creature that for some inexplicable reason had come within biting-range. Aziraphale clamped down hard on his own nervousness and he felt Eros retract her fear as much as she was able to. Fear was akin to blood in these waters and the sharks were innumerable. Softly the chatter began to pick up again and the snatches Aziraphale heard had him nervous enough to seek out Crowley who was so close to him their arms rubbed together.

It was oddly relieving to feel the same nervous energy in the demon, albeit so hard-bitten it almost felt like indifference.

“-what’s he doing-?”

“-the Traitor-!”

“-Was he-?”

“-is he a-?”

“-turncoat?”

“-Traitor?”

“-Angel?“

Evidently Dagon had also heard the whispers and she turned to the crowd, snarling with impressively sharp teeth, “RIGHT, YOU LOT! BACK TO WORK!”

With a unanimous grumble the crowd began to move again, although many of the demons were walking as slow as possible; black, red, green, insectile, and reptilian eyes judging Aziraphale with what the angel could only parse as  _ hunger _ . Crowley’s hand found his and he clung to it for all he was worth. As they walked, he felt Eros’ panic begin to subside, it was in no way banished, but it shrunk just enough to more resemble a constant shiver instead of incessant screaming.

When she began to take notice of the demons moving to either side, that fear shrunk even more, replaced with a sort of fond longing.

_ I know them _ …

Her voice was soft, almost reverent. As they moved deeper the corridor widened but the crowd did not lessen. Eros’ earlier terror had almost completely subsided into childish wonder as Aziraphale felt her attention jump from demon to demon. It was almost like a tour, he mused, as she started to recount her memories of those she could see.

Almost like listening to a proud mother whose children had finally come back to visit.

Crowley’s hand was still clenched in his, a cool anchor in this hot place, and Aziraphale squeezed it gently whilst Eros rambled on in his ear.

_ Now that one, she made lilies. _ She murmured as a demon with strikingly light blue skin and blindingly white hair edged past the procession, _ Beautiful star-shaped flowers, they were, smelled divine. That one over there, the one with the ram’s horns, he helped her with the colour, dragged Faith in to see what he recommended. I’m not entirely sure my Brother knew what they were asking. But the colours… oh the colours were gorgeous. Azure blue and vibrant yellow, blossom pink and shining pearl. Faith always did like a bit of extravagance. _

Her chatter was almost hypnotising as she flitted from demon to demon, gushing over their previous accomplishments, but it soon trailed off when Beelzebub ushered them into their office. 

The Prince shut the slate grey door with a heavy sigh.

“What I wouldn’t give for air conditioning.” They muttered before slumping into their throne-like chair.

Barachiel was glancing around the office cautiously and Aziraphale had to say he wasn’t exactly comfortable himself. Crowley squeezed his hand again and Aziraphale took that small comfort to heart. He wasn’t alone here.

The door creaked open and Beelzebub leapt to their feet, a warning scowl already spreading across their face. A scowl that immediately lightened when Hastur stuck his head in; Aziraphale couldn’t help but stare.

The Duke’s usual pallor was alleviated slightly by a much healthier shade of pink in his cheeks, his frog sat under the wig much more comfortably with the requisite warts across the Duke’s scalp restricted to the patch upon which the frog rested. And he was smiling. Well, not very noticeably, but the scowl wasn’t much of a scowl anymore and Aziraphale could feel the change in the Duke’s aura. He felt lighter.

Aziraphale also felt a small jolt of pride from Eros, a feeling which she immediately retracted when the fire flared again. Aziraphale didn’t even wince.

Beelzebub didn’t smile either but Aziraphale saw the worried crease between their brows soften, “Hazztur. I zzee you got a new corporation.”

The Duke nodded and stepped into the office followed closely by Ligur and a demon that Aziraphale didn’t recognise with a rather inordinate amount of eyeshadow on. The eyeshadow demon took one look at Aziraphale and a large grin lit up his face.

“Heh, heard about what happened with you Upstairs. Glad to see you’ve come to your senses, man. Those guys Up there are total tools.” The demon held out his hand and Aziraphale took it, hesitantly but firmly. “Sorry about the hellfire, though. Just doing my job, you understand.”

Aziraphale nodded although he was very sure he didn’t understand and then his conversation with Crowley post-Trial came back to him.

“Of course, no hard feelings.”

The demon grinned, “Legion5. Though, personally, I go by Eric.”

“Aziraphale.”

Eric started to say something more when Beelzebub interjected with an irritable buzz, “Why are you here?”

Eric looked a bit befuddled before he smiled, “Oh yeah. Yeah, the Council wants to see you. Heard about your ‘prize’ and wanted to see if it was worth as much as you said. Michael’s got everyone a bit nervous. Nearly fried Belial before she escaped her flat in New York, she’s still being treated for blessed burns across her face.”

Beelzebub grimaced, “Good thing we left zzzo quickly then.” They snapped their fingers and the red, official sash wrapped around their torso again. They glanced to Aziraphale, “We’re running out of time azzz it izzz, bezzt not to wazzzte it.”

Dagon gave Barachiel a look and the Seraph immediately started walking in front of her and behind the petite form of the Prince ahead. Once more the now considerable party of demons and the two angels ventured into the overcrowded halls of Hell. Eric somehow managing to walk alongside Aziraphale in the already much too tight space.

“Hey, mate, I uh… I heard something from the Dukes. Somethin’ about you being…”

“Possessed?” Aziraphale offered and Eric nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah that’s what they said. Is it true? I mean I thought you angels were… uh… you know. Too holy for demonic possession.”

Aziraphale felt a small smile creep back onto his face, “ _ Who said anything about it being demonic? _ ”

Eric nearly crashed into a tiny demon with bat ears who squeaked angrily after him whilst he tried to regain his footing. Eros giggled.

When Eric had stumbled back into an appropriate walking pace, he stared at Aziraphale with wide, heavily tinted eyes, “Woah… Who is that?”

“ _ You can call me Eros, dear. _ ” Aziraphale felt Crowley pick up the pace a little and he followed suit.

“Awesome. So, what’re you doing in there? I’ve never heard of anyone called Eros before.”

Crowley coughed pointedly 6 as Beelzebub threw open a heavy black door ahead of them, flanked by two massive demons with three different sets of horns. Aziraphale sighed.

“I think explanations will have to come later, Eric. We’re rather pressed for time right now.”

Eric smiled, “Sure. Just don’t piss off the Council and I’ll find you. We’ll get a coffee or something.”

Aziraphale was just about to ask Crowley whether Hell even  _ had _ any coffee when Ligur ushered them into the Council hall.

In all Aziraphale’s considerably long life he’d never been in so foreboding a room and never before had he felt so trapped as he did standing on a pentagonal dais in front of the most forbidding beings he’d ever had the displeasure of meeting.

One leaned forward, silvery strands of hair spilling down from behind two ebony horns curling up from his hairline, he looked to Beelzebub and raised one silver eyebrow.

“Well. This explanation will be one for the ages.”

* * *

_ 1 _ _ Crowley dealt more with irony; this kind of anger had never really been his thing but better late than never. _

_ 2 _ _ Crowley was oh-so tempted to add the ‘one single better idea?’ line but the author has already included that reference once and she hates repeating herself, even if it makes sense. _

_ 3 _ _ Aziraphale himself didn’t. Eros was on the fence but more willing to give Beelzebub the benefit of the doubt. _

_ 4 _ _ The resulting liquid wasn’t exactly vomit given that the Seraph had likely never eaten anything ever. It was still oddly disgusting. _

_ 5So named because Eric happened to be born with the useful ability to multiply himself. An ability which also nets him the shittiest jobs in Hell. Like working with Hastur when he's not in a good mood. _

_ 6 _ _ Several demons in the immediate vicinity heard it and mistook it for a warning cough. Apparently ‘Crowley’s’ stint in the holy bathtub had given him a somewhat fearsome reputation. It took several janitor demons a long, long time to coax these ones back down from the ceiling—where they had wedged themselves to escape the terrifying Traitor’s reptilian glare. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the last one, this chapter is quite uplifting. No one's dead ~~Gabriel~~ , no torture flashbacks, no... err, _excess_ of blood. No, just the revelation that Aziraphale might explode at an indeterminate future date. Nothing to be concerned about.  
> Oh wait...
> 
> Tomorrow we finally get to meet back up with the Dark Council and we also get to see how Heaven is dealing with Gabriel's death (here's a hint: not well).
> 
> Kudos and comments are very welcome and much appreciated :)


	16. The Dark Council

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dark Council meets Eros and we finally get a small segment from Michael's point of view.

To say that Crowley was nervous was like saying all birds could fly. Not  _ technically _ true but you get the gist of it all the same. What Crowley was feeling, beneath the thick, scaly layer of fake nonchalance and boredom, was something more akin to absolutely paralysing  _ terror _ .

He, Anthony J. Crowley, was standing in front of 6 of the most important infernal beings in the Universe—if he wasn’t counting Satan himself 1 —with his angel. His dear, sweet, pure,  _ angelic _ Aziraphale.

In Hell.

Where hellfire wasn’t so much a weapon as a natural hazard one had to avoid, particularly if you didn’t want to singe your shirt before a meeting.

Aziraphale looked about as petrified as Crowley felt although the demon was resoundingly relieved that his angel had had the wherewithal to dampen his fear enough that he wasn’t, in essence, wearing a big flashy tag that said ‘ _ I’M FUCKING TERRIFIED, TAKE ADVANTAGE OF ME! _ ’. For that matter he was also greatly relieved that Eros wasn’t projecting anything either. The last thing the two of them needed was for the Dark Council to go into a feeding frenzy over the veritable buffet of bad feelings that followed the spirit about like a particularly pervasive smell.

Almost without thinking, Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand and squeezed. It was as much for his angel’s comfort as it was for his own. Aziraphale’s hand was warm and soft, familiar to Crowley through six thousand years of handshakes and, much more recently, of simple hand holding. If he lifted the plump hand to his lips, he knew what he would taste. Mint and sweet apple, perhaps just a hint of that unmistakeable old book smell, and Aziraphale would smile at him with those twinkling sky-blue eyes and they’d go have lunch at the Ritz or go for a walk in the park.

No Heaven.

No Hell.

Just ridiculously expensive food and a ridiculously cute angel.

What he wouldn’t give for that time again.

Each Prince had their own throne and one sat conspicuously empty behind the slate table, a dark obsidian thing with a rough carving of a fly in lieu of a crest. It's owner stood just a few feet away, Asmodeus glaring down at them from his far more ornately carved and highly polished onyx throne.   


Beelzebub didn’t even flinch and glared back at their colleague with more than a little contempt.

“I brought a bargaining chip.” They announced to the room at large, shoving Barachiel in front of them. The Seraph was trembling again, and Crowley really couldn’t blame him. This likely wasn’t at all what the Seraph had envisioned of his future unless he had some sort of death wish.

Leviathan steepled their claws and looked to Aziraphale who had unconsciously edged himself closer to Crowley. Their lips twitched thoughtfully, “Looksss to me like you brought two. Although I admit a Sssseraph hasss more value than a… traitorousss Principality. I doubt Michael’sss anger over her brother’sss death would abate much if we offered him asss a hossstage.”

The other five Princes shifted their attention to focus on Aziraphale, and Crowley tried to stem the protective growl threatening to free itself from his throat. If there was a time and place for brave stupidity; this was definitely  _ not _ it. However, he did pull Aziraphale closer and threw a defiant scowl the Princes’ way. 

Mammon laughed, a cruel sharp sound,  “He’s not much of a Principality anymore. You don’t tend to keep rank when Heaven rejects you.”

“And we won’t have any zzzort of rank whatzzzo-bloody-ever if we don’t zzend Michael a mezzzage.” Beelzebub bit out. 

Astaroth sighed,  “True. We’ll have Botis construct a… suitable message.” She looked up and waved a single elegant hand. A demon who looked like he could bench-press a freight train detached himself from the shadows next to the door and moved to Barachiel’s side. The Seraph barely had time to squeak in alarm before the hulking being grabbed one of his arms, a single clawed hand completely enveloping the angel's bicep, and hauled him out of sight with nary a twitch of its muscles.

Asmodeus turned his attention back to Beelzebub, “So with that… inconvenience out of the way would you care to tell us why you have dragged a Traitor and a renegade angel into our midst?”

Berith snorted, “He isn’t your ‘contact’, is he?”

The chamber echoed with ominous laughter. The hair on the nape of Crowley’s neck stood on end and he felt the sudden urge to collapse into a snake and book it for the exit.

Beelzebub didn’t miss a beat, “No, he’zz carrying Lilith.”

The chamber fell silent. 

Dead silent.

Not one of the Princes was laughing or even smirking anymore. Crowley would have been able to hear a single hair hit the floor let alone a bloody pin.

Finally, Belphegor decided to break the silence.

“We do not joke on this matter, Beelzebub.” His voice hard and cold, “Lilith is-”

“Zztanding right in front of you, you utter moron.” Beelzebub interrupted, “If you don’t believe me, focuzz on the angel. Try and tell me he doezzzn’t feel off to you.”

Crowley hissed softly as Aziraphale clenched his hand hard enough for the bones to grind together. The combined attention of all six Princes was so strong that Crowley himself felt like he was under a microscope with his soul naked for all the world to see. He couldn’t even imagine how it was for Aziraphale although his hand was giving him a good estimation.

Mammon scowled, “There is _something_ …”

“Indeed. Something not quite right.” Added Astaroth, staring hard at Aziraphale with luminous poison-green eyes.

Belphegor scoffed, the sound twisting into a disgusting choking cough through his ever-present slime, “Just because the angel’s aura is odd does not prove anything. Least of all any connection to  _ her _ . He is half-Fallen already, who is to say that is not the source of this anomaly?”

Finally, Aziraphale looked up, “ _ I believe I am, Khamael, given that I **am** the cause. _ ”

There were very few people possessed of the ability to stun the Dark Council into silence. Really only Satan had that power, but apparently Lilith commanded the same respect. Belphegor seemed to have run out of braincells, however, and his shock smoothly slid into a boiling fury.

His slick face twisted into a scowl, he all but snarled, “ _ Anyone _ can do a fucking impression.  **_Anyone_ ** could have found out that name. This proves  _ nothing _ !”

Crowley felt Eros stir within Aziraphale and he also felt the sudden stab of pain that came with it. Pain that his angel bore with barely a wince.

“ _ In other words, Khamael, you want proof. Very well. I assume you remember your words to me the last time we saw one another? And that you remember my answer? _ ” Eros spoke slowly, to anyone else she sounded contemptuous, regal, and irritated. To Crowley though, all he could hear was the distant strain in that ice-cold voice, the growing desperation and the resurgent fear boiling just below it all.

Belphegor had paled considerably beneath the slime and the scowl, but he nodded, “Of course I do.”

“ _ And you would agree that no one, absolutely no one, else could possibly know those words? _ ”

Belphegor ground his teeth, “No soul, infernal or otherwise, knows, except Lilith. So,  _ you _ definitely won’t know.”

Eros paused and Crowley felt Aziraphale squeeze his bruised hand again, “ _ You asked… You asked me if she could ever love you again _ .”

The chamber was silent once more and every eye was on Belphegor.

“ _ I said she never stopped. _ ”

***

The silence was deafening. All eyes trained on Belphegor who seemed to have frozen. The only one not so entranced was Eros herself who was trying to desperately juggle the tasks of keeping her fire from hurting Aziraphale, keeping herself in enough control so she could talk,  _ and _ keeping all of her worry, pain, and just plain terror hidden deep enough so that the Council would have no excuse to pounce.

Her effort would have put the Titan, Atlas, to shame.

“ _ Well, Khamael? Was I correct? _ ” That seemed to startle the Prince out of his reverie but instead of answering he slowly rose from his seat and made his way around the table. It was almost like he carried leprosy with the scrutinising stares the other Princes were focusing his way. Just as slowly and carefully Belphegor stopped in front of Aziraphale. The Prince was taller than the angel, though not by much, and he had to crane his head back to look him in the eye. Belphegor’s eyes were a toxic yellow and it was an effort not to cringe away.

“If you are her, “He said, his voice wobbling very slightly, “Then tell me who it was I feared would hate me.”

Aziraphale thought back to the conversation and frowned internally. Naturally the first name that came into his head was God, but he had a feeling that would be the exact answer Belphegor wanted from him. An answer that would trip him up and reveal Aziraphale to be a fraud. Luckily Eros actually  _ was _ with him and now all she had to do was remember exactly who Belphegor—or Khamael apparently—had been referring to in a half-murmured statement made in the depths of Hell more than six thousand years ago.

Oh.

Now he saw the problem.

Eros looked up at Belphegor and Aziraphale felt a surge of confidence that she quickly stifled. She raised his hand and beckoned for the Prince to lean down. He did so, the rustle of ancient cloth being all that broke the stubborn silence, and Eros whispered into his ear.

It was too faint for anyone else to hear except for Belphegor and Aziraphale who only heard it through the unusual movement of his own mouth.

After all, it wasn’t often that he mouthed the name of Uriel.

Belphegor stiffened and took a step back, one slick hand rising to cover a trembling mouth, “Y-you…”

Eros smiled, “ _ Yes, my dear. _ ”

Belphegor returned to his throne and the rest of the Council stared at Aziraphale with wide eyes.

After a few minutes of utter silence where Aziraphale was strongly beginning to wonder if they hadn’t somehow accidentally stopped time again, Asmodeus rose from his throne, regarding Aziraphale with something other than amused irritation. Almost respect.

“Why have you returned?” He asked. This seemed to stir the rest of the Council who leaned forward across the table, eager anticipation crackling in the air. If Eros had been anything like Aziraphale she would have stammered for half an hour before getting to any real point. As it was, she paused thoughtfully before continuing in a slightly warmer tone of voice.

“ _ I return to seek out my body. My original body which has been trapped here for more than six millennia. I rather urgently require it. _ ”

Berith narrowed their pitch-black eyes, “Trapped? Why was it trapped? Did-” They swallowed thickly, “Did  _ She _ trap you?”

“ _ Oh, no. Lucifer did that _ .”

Aziraphale had to physically hold onto Crowley as the wall of sheer  _ rage _ hit him. It felt like trying to stay in the way of a ferocious river of lava. When his hearing returned Aziraphale realised that the Council was having a full-blown screaming match. Shrieking at one another in a language Aziraphale had never heard before. Even Beelzebub had joined in, their insectile form peeking out in response to the need for intimidation. He felt Crowley’s wings manifest and encircle them both; raven-black feathers shielding them from the outrage pouring from the seven Princes. Eros had retreated so far that Aziraphale momentarily panicked, thinking she was gone. She wasn’t but it took all his concentration to find that familiar glow again and it was shrouded in swirling eddies of fear. She hadn’t panicked, not yet, but it didn’t take a genius to see her distress.

A sudden hand on his shoulder made him jump. Ligur had edged his way over and fairly dragged the two of them to where Hastur stood covering his ears, his mouth twisted in a pained grimace. Hastur then led them to an adjacent room half-hidden in the omnipresent shadow and Crowley slammed the heavy door behind them—muffling the hellish shrieking.

“They could go on like that for hours,” Ligur muttered, rubbing his ears, his eyes now a dark blue.

Aziraphale had to lean on Crowley until his head stopped spinning and made a sort of groaning ‘mgh’ noise. Hastur grimaced, if not sympathetically then at least not mockingly.

“You might need to sit down,” He said, gesturing to a well-worn stone bench. Crowley gratefully steered Aziraphale to it and the two of them collapsed onto it in a tangle of cream and black clothed limbs. His head throbbed like a particularly nasty hangover and he groaned into Crowley’s shoulder, taking comfort from the familiar sandalwood and smoke smell of the demon’s jacket.

There was a rather nasty chuckle and Aziraphale reluctantly peeled himself away from Crowley to blearily stare in the offending noise’s direction. Barachiel sat suspended three feet in the air inside what looked to be a massive bird cage. Someone had even added a giant cuttlefish bone and a mangled bell. Barachiel himself was sneering at Aziraphale from between the twisted black bars. The look was slightly ruined by the fact that the cage wasn’t tall enough for the Seraph to stand and as such he was currently sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees but Aziraphale had been on the receiving end of such looks for far too long for it not to get a reaction, namely a wince.

“Hell not as welcoming as you’d like, Aziraphale?” The caged angel asked, glowering like a storm.

Hastur gave an overly dramatic sigh, “Right, forgot he was in here.” The Duke sauntered up to the cage and with a single whack of his hand had it spinning in a dizzying circle with the Seraph inside a white blur. Abruptly Hastur stopped the cage and Barachiel smashed face-first into the bars with a groan.

“Trust me, shit-head, if the Council didn’t want you intact for negotiations, you’d be having a lovely chat with Azazel over the colour of your fucking innards. So be grateful and shut your fucking mouth.” He smirked and sent the cage spinning again, not bothering to stop it this time.

Aziraphale reburied his face into Crowley’s shoulder and the demon snaked an arm around his waist. Hastur was still talking, probably gloating as the bird cage slowed its spinning, but it already sounded distant and fuzzy. The screaming from the Council Chamber hadn’t abated either and, unbelievably, Aziraphale found himself relaxing into Crowley. His eyes shutting of their own accord.

He was just so tired…

***

She sensed the terrified Seraph’s presence long before they announced themselves. She continued to ignore them and faced the next dummy with a snarl. It was a perfect shade of white, crisp and clean without a single tuft of stuffing out of place. Of course, that perfection didn’t last long as she slashed down it’s chest, stuffing flying every which way, splitting an immaculate vertical slit down the sternum and lodging the tip of the blade into what would have been the guts before ripping it away.

She imagined the dummy bleeding, collapsing to the floor with desperate hands clawing at steaming entrails to try to fit them back in as if doing so could help; her next strike lopped off the dummy’s head at the neck leaving nothing but a perfect stump.

She watched the head bounce amongst the carnage of the other thirty nearby dummies she had worked through in the past hour. If she squinted  _ just _ right the bouncing head had a mop of greasy black hair and a hideous fly clinging to it. 

If only…

“S-sir?”  


Michael whirled around with the heavenly sword raised and the trembling Seraph reflexively ducked.

“ **_What?_ ** ”

The Seraph swallowed nervously and glanced down at her clipboard, “W-We received c-communications fr-from the Opposition…” She unclipped a snow-white memo and hastily handed it over to Michael, retreating to a safe distance once her delivery was done. Namely out of reach of Michael’s sword.

Michael sheathed the weapon and unfolded the memo, glaring down at the gilded golden script.

It wasn’t long before the precaution the Seraph had taken became warranted as Michael roared, outraged, and buried her sword up to the hilt in a hitherto unharmed practice dummy.

“ _ Negotiate terms _ ?” She screeched, pulling the sword out before lopping the dummy’s head off, “They  _ dare _ ? Those  _ cowards _ dare to demand a meeting?” She growled viciously as she sliced the dummy clean in half at the waist.

Another dummy was impaled through the heart, another disarmed, literally, and still another bisected from shoulder to hip. The air was thick with stuffing fibres before she sheathed the sword again. The Seraph stood in the training room’s corner, quivering like a leaf. Michael ignored her and snapped her fingers. The catastrophe in the training room righted itself immediately and soon enough all four hundred dummies were fully stuffed, stitched, and stashed back in the seemingly endless cupboard.

She took a moment to miracle her usual stiff suit on in lieu of her more comfortable armour and spent a minute composing her hair into a more suiting style for an Archangel.

Especially Heaven’s new commander.

She stifled the new spark of rage at the thought. Now was no time for wrath, righteous or otherwise, but it took all her hard-earned discipline to bury that spark deep enough that she was reasonably confident she wouldn’t rip the next being she came across asunder.

Her effort was not in vain as the next being happened to be Zadkiel.

She could still clearly see the tear tracks staining her youngest brother’s face and dimly she wondered how Gabriel would have reacted. Perhaps he would have chastised him for his rumpled suit or maybe he would have comforted him with a chaste hug—the younger Archangel had never been one for overt gestures of affection after all. 

A sudden swell of helpless anger struggled to break her calm, but she ruthlessly pushed it down.

Not now.

“Zadkiel, do you have news?” She winced at the forced cold in her own voice, but it was all she could do not to shout, and that was certainly not what her gentle brother needed. What he needed was a purpose, a task, something to distract until the ache softened. What he needed was  _ evidence _ . Something to investigate.  


“No… h-he’s still missing.” Zadkiel grimaced at his stammer and glanced guiltily at the floor, as if expecting a reprimand for failing this deeply personal task.

As if Michael could ever bring herself to do that.

Michael knew Gabriel was dead, she could feel it, had felt it as had the rest of her siblings.  _ Everyone _ agreed he must be dead. But no one had found him. She’d even tried contacting Dagon, desperate for any news, but her contact had failed to answer; in her resulting rage, Michael had tracked the demon down and, in doing so, she'd broken multiple ancient laws by trespassing into a fellow angel’s dwelling without first being invited; even if said angel was a genuine Traitor who, for some ineffable reason, had not Fallen. 

That had been the first several rules of many she had broken, the most serious of which could have been the death of her.

Perhaps literally.

The Metatron wasn’t exactly famous for his mercy, especially to those who falsified his orders and had taken control of the angelic host without permission in an incredibly demonic fit of wrath; her fury over her brother's disappearance leading to a very brief period of time where she saw nothing but red and the demons stationed on Earth, all of whom seemed responsible for her grief. 

But her bout of fury had lead to naught but  a single silver scale on a table and  the opportunity to wound a few demons.  


So, she had returned to Heaven without her brother and without a lead, fully expecting an angry summons to be awaiting her. Instead she’d found what could only be described as chaos and amid the panicked shouting she had discerned two words: ‘Metatron’ and ‘Gone’.

It hadn’t taken a genius to figure it out from there.

And so, Michael had taken control of a Heaven reeling from multiple murders including the death of a second Archangel and left rudderless in the face of an impending war. To say she’d had a rough time of it would probably be the biggest understatement in the history of all understatements.

She sighed and grabbed Zadkiel in a rough approximation of a hug. It wasn’t a move she’d had much practice with and as such it was awkward and slightly painful but Zadkiel didn’t seem to care as he hugged her back fiercely. Michael flicked her eyes to where the Seraph had stood but the younger angel had wisely scarpered. Zadkiel shuddered once in Michael’s grip before releasing her and she him.

“We looked everywhere, Michael, but there was no sign of him. Anywhere.”

Michael forced a smile, “It's fine, brother, it isn’t worth risking your own safety over. If this peace breaks, we’ll need every healer we have, and every Archangel.”

“You think it’ll come to that? To war? It didn’t work the first time.”

Michael grimaced and fished the memo from her pocket, “It won’t if the Opposition has its way. They have Barachiel and they want a meeting. To discuss… terms.”

Zadkiel’s eyes widened, “So… a truce?”

“Possibly. Without the Metatron's guidance we’re flying in blind. And as far as we know the Traitors are Down there with them so…”

Zadkiel winced, “So Aziraphale may have betrayed us to them. We’ll be going in at a disadvantage.”

Michael nodded, “But Barachiel is one of my lieutenants. I cannot leave him with the Enemy, and we still have this murderer to deal with.”

Zadkiel nodded and, Michael noticed with unaccustomed relief, he seemed renewed with invigorating purpose, “I’ll order a head count, determine our current strength, and then we can see to answering their demands.”

Michael nodded approvingly, “Regroup and reorganise in case this all goes… what’s the human phrase?”

“Pear-shaped.”

Michael smiled, not in the least bit happy, but glad her anger would finally have a useful outlet. If all this did go sideways, she might see that black-haired head rolling at her feet yet.

* * *

_ 1 _ _ Or Beelzebub, but Crowley had half-forgotten the Prince was even there. There was an old human proverb about war and its part in making strange bedfellows. Or maybe it was that one about keeping enemies closer than friends. Either way he’d been in such uncomfortable proximity to the tiny demon for so long it no longer really registered that they were there, unless they were speaking of course. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna lie, I really enjoyed writing as Michael.  
> I just love the idea of her having a REALLY fiery temper which she constantly has to suppress because she's an _Archangel_ so she _has_ to which leads to her seeking an escape through violence (a rather unhealthy habit but nobody from Heaven or Hell is really right in the head so not wholly unexpected from an angel literally made to be a General). I also love the idea that, though she sucks at being comforting, she gives it a good honest go because she _cares_ about her family.
> 
> I also haven't mentioned this but Khamael is one of the names for the Archangel of strength. Now, I know Belphegor was never an Archangel (if he was, him loving Uriel like he does would be a bit weird) but I picked it as his old angel name both because I thought it sounded cool and because it makes sense that an angel of strength would be able to become a Prince of Hell.  
> (And sorta related to this, Selaphiel actually _is_ the angel of Thursdays and Barachiel happens to be the angel of Saturdays)
> 
> Tomorrow we get another one of Eros' Hell-dreams, Aziraphale could really use a strong pain-killer, and we get to visit the very bowels of Hell.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, comments and kudos are very welcome and much appreciated :)


	17. The Pit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale, Crowley, and Beelzebub all venture into the very bowels of Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: yet another flashback of torture and several more allusions to it scattered throughout.  
> Ye have been warned.

_ “Hold still, Love.” _

_ Some part of her, a part that had long lain dormant, wanted to point out that moving hadn’t been an option for longer than she cared to remember. Lucifer, as always, acted almost as if she were a willing partner in this sick dance; always crooning soft words and telling her how well she was doing and how pleased he was with her ‘efforts’. _

_ If he meant her refusal to scream until she was physically incapable of holding the shriek back, then she supposed he had a point. Everything else though, that was  _ **_all_ ** _ him. _

_ Strung up by her wings and pinned to the floor with chains embedded in the flesh of her limbs there wasn’t exactly a lot she  _ **_was_ ** _ able to do, let alone  _ **_help_ ** _ him. Not that it mattered much to Lucifer. He must, she realised, enjoy having someone to talk to. Someone who wasn’t fanatically loyal or still irritatingly disobedient. _

_ That’s why she was enduring this latest test. Because some poor child had had the audacity to refuse Lucifer’s desire and the Devil was trying to figure out the best way to punish them for it. There was another sickening pop and Love retreated within herself more, willing her arm into numbness so she didn’t have to feel the searing agony creeping up from her hand. It was a different agony to the usual. Something slightly new and therefore worthy of note. _

_ Normally her hands were run through with chains and forced to point to the ground, but Lucifer had decided to get creative once more and had dragged the chains out to better access her hand. _

_ Dimly she mused that with her arm free she could try to strike at him, see what it felt like to cause  _ **_him_ ** _ pain, see  _ **_him_ ** _ writhe in agony at her feet. However, she knew that was impossible. Hundreds or perhaps thousands of years of imprisonment had not left her unmarked and even remaining as still as possible she could feel the ache of atrophied muscle. If she tried to strike Lucifer, she imagined her arm might snap off at the elbow and she’d rather not have that happen again, especially not if she could help it. _

_ Well, there was that and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to bring herself to do it. Lucifer was her everything now, she had nothing else, if she tried to strike him… _

_ He’d be angry, certainly, she’d endured his tantrums before but this one would be different. He might abandon her, leave her to hang in endless purgatory until Existence ended or she died. She wouldn’t be able to bear that. _

_ There was another pop and her arm quivered. _

_ “Not even a whimper, Love?” Lucifer straightened up; one eyebrow raised incredulously. He glanced down at the crude pliers fashioned out of infernal steel. In their metal jaws was clamped a single pale finger leaking deep scarlet and gold flecks onto the dark stone by her feet. Love looked at the digit distantly, like she had never seen it before.  _

_ Lucifer huffed, “Huh…” Experimentally he took her hand and lifted it into view. _

_ Love didn’t even flinch at the sight of the mutilated stumps of all but her index finger. _

_ He let her hand drop and she felt it swing idly by her side. Lucifer looked at her appraisingly and leaned against the stone table where he laid the pliers next to the normal assortment of tools. _

_ “Maybe we need to approach this differently, Love.” _

_ There was the hollow click of Lucifer snapping his fingers together and he turned, gently swirling a tiny bottle full of a clear liquid. _

_ He grinned, “How do you feel about poison?” _

***

Aziraphale groaned into soft leather.

Shivering pain shuddered down each limb as he struggled to sit up. Belatedly he realised the reason for the difficulty was because he was tangled in Crowley’s limbs and the demon was holding on too tightly for him to move or even straighten his spine.

“’Ziraphale?”

Aziraphale looked up to find two golden eyes looking back, “Morning… I think.”

Crowley grumbled something unintelligible and sat up, still somehow wrapped tightly around Aziraphale.

“What was that, dear?”

“I said we slept too long. How we managed to bloody sleep down here at all is a mystery but still.”

Aziraphale winced as he shifted slightly, the motion causing sparks of pain to ricochet down his spine, “Do you know the time?”

“Mnnh, don’t need the time. You’ve got worse. Eyes’ve gone darker and you look like a ghost.”

Aziraphale chuckled slightly despite the aching throb that shivered down his throat afterwards, “Ghosts don’t exist, my dear.”

Crowley groaned, “Yeah, whatever. You’re too pale, angel. It isn’t good.”

Crowley began disentangling himself, and Aziraphale scanned the room as he did. At first glance, it appeared they were alone with Barachiel in his cage, but a soft snore from the opposite bench proved him wrong. The two Dukes were sat, or rather draped over, an identical stone bench just as firmly entangled together as Aziraphale had been with Crowley. All the angel could see of Hastur was the white fringe of his wig poking out from beneath Ligur’s protective arms.

“They fell asleep not long after you did, angel.” Crowley said, finally extricating all his limbs but still firmly holding Aziraphale by the hand as if the angel would evaporate without an anchor.

“And Barachiel?”

The Seraph sat motionless in the cage; his pale suit grimy with the omnipresent filth of Hell. Crowley huffed a laugh, “The bastard’s been sat like that for ages. I think he’s sulking. Hastur had a good three hours of fun spinning that cage. Honestly I’ve never seen an angel go  _ green _ before.”

Aziraphale hummed distractedly. He could feel Eros hovering somewhere at the very edge of his consciousness, but she had yet to reach out to him. She was still scared, that much he was able to sense, but she had removed herself so efficiently that all he could feel was a slight weight behind his eyes. Barely even that.

“Hey, angel.” Aziraphale felt Crowley gently tilt his chin to face him. It hurt but not as bad as he had expected it to.

“Are you doing okay? Seriously.”

Aziraphale smiled, “No. No I’m not, Crowley. But I’ll be fine if we can get Eros safely back in her own body. I can promise you that.”

Crowley made a face, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, angel. We don’t even know if the Council will take her word that Lu- Sa- HE has her body at all. They didn’t get to be Princes because he thought they’d betray him at the drop of a hat.”

_ —Snapping finger bones and tearing flesh, meant for Berith, it’ll shatter their spine in three places, should teach them not to be mouthy— _

Aziraphale shuddered, “No, I suppose not.”

Crowley sighed and pulled Aziraphale into a sort of side-hug. The angel’s head rested on Crowley’s shoulder; in any other situation it would have been uncomfortable but here, now, it was better than any pillow.

“Angel?”

“Mm?”

“Don’t fall asleep again, yeah? The Council stopped screaming about half an hour ago, might’ve come to an agreement or something.”

Aziraphale made an affirming sort of noise and then found it incredibly difficult to keep his eyes open. He should be uncomfortable like this, it should be impossible to fall asleep like this, and yet his body seemed determined to catch up on 6000 years’ worth of skipped sleep at the worst possible moment.

Luckily, Dagon poked her head in in the nick of time, grinning like a particularly pleased shark, “Lord Beelzebub wants to see you two.” She announced loudly to the room at large, directing it towards them with a bright flash of razor-sharp teeth. Hastur and Ligur together made an indignant noise and flopped onto the floor of the antechamber with a joint groan, trying to untangle themselves and keep their composure 1 . Dagon rolled her eyes.

Crowley tried to stifle a giggle and managed to turn it into a cough whilst he helped Aziraphale to his feet. The broken glass feeling had spread and now every step felt like shards of ice were forcing their way through his veins into his calves in an unremitting, searing ache. To his surprise he managed to walk with only a slight limp and Crowley again took his hand and followed Dagon out of the antechamber.

Once more, Aziraphale stood with Crowley on the dais before the seven Princes of Hell. Seven pairs of eyes of all hues and shapes followed his every move and Aziraphale tried to ignore it, his wings ached to unfurl into an intimidating display, but he resisted on grounds of self-preservation.

Beelzebub looked to their fellows and stood from their throne, “The Council hazzz decided after much… deliberation, that Lilith will be granted permizzzion to dezzcend into Hell’zz depthzz in order to claim her rightful corporation. If and when she returnzzz we will then dizzcuzzz the implicationzzz of Lucifer’zzz treachery.”

There was a quiet affirmative murmur between the seven demons and Aziraphale breathed a very quiet sigh of relief. Crowley squeezed his hand but didn’t dare say anything.

Beelzebub held up a pale hand, “And, becauzze of thezze… zzpecial circumzztancezz, the angel known azzz Aziraphale and the demon known azz Crowley will hereby be under the protection of Hell until further notice,” They levied a careful look at Aziraphale and the angel could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smile play across their pockmarked face, “From now on they anzzwer to me and to no other until Lilith zztandzz before uzz once more.”

Again, a murmur of affirmation echoed in the chamber though it was slightly more reluctant this time. Beelzebub circumvented the table and leaned in close to Aziraphale, pale eyes darting back to the Council as the Princes began muttering amongst themselves.

“We muzzt hurry. If we cannot prove Erozz izz truly Lilith they won’t allow either of you to zztay and if you go back that… that monzzter might dezztroy you.” Aziraphale almost smiled at the obvious concern in the Prince’s voice but he dared not do so in front of the obviously still sceptical Council. 

Crowley huffed, “So let’s get her out of Aziraphale and show them that they should have paid more attention to who they were pledging eternal loyalty to.”

Beelzebub sighed and began steering them to the exit, “It izzn’t that zzimple. The pitzz are no place for an unFallen angel. If he goezz down unprepared the shock will kill him.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure why he was being spoken about like he wasn’t there, but he found that when he moved his jaw to speak it sent such a fierce jolt of pain through his muscles that he had to quickly clamp it shut again. Crowley glanced at him, concern palpable in the air between them, but Beelzebub ignored it.

“He needzz to be prepared for it, Crowley.”

Crowley stiffened, “ _ No _ .”

“There izzn’t any other option.”

“You  _ can’t _ \- “

Beelzebub sighed and grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist. Their hand was cold and a little clammy and nowhere near as reassuring as Crowley’s. Crowley doggedly held onto Aziraphale’s other hand but didn’t dare try to pull the angel free of the Prince’s grip and ended up following them into the crowded corridors of Hell. Dagon waited for them there flanked by two seemingly identical demons holding ominously forbidding axes. She grimaced.

“Do you have it?”

Dagon nodded and handed over a small black bag which Beelzebub quickly stuffed into their suit. At a nod from the Prince the two guards 2 took up position on either side of Aziraphale and Crowley and they began marching forwards. The crowds beyond the Chamber’s foyer fell deathly silent as they passed, parting like the Red Sea in front of a tiny buzzing Moses. Beneath the silence there were also whispers but Aziraphale mostly just concentrated on setting one foot in front of the other.

He was thankful his skin was far too sensitive to allow for any kind of hand wringing otherwise he feared he would have broken both wrists attempting to alleviate the stress bubbling quietly inside him. His only reliever was Crowley whose feather-light touch helped slow his clamouring heart and who shot any demon he could see staring at Aziraphale with a look so downright terrifying that one demon actually fainted 3 . It was sort of sweet.

He did his best to ignore the pain now permanently burning up his calves and stabbing into his thighs but occasionally he had to whimper under his breath. It was an effort not to shriek.

It took what seemed like hours and several dozen staircases but finally the crowds thinned and Beelzebub stopped by a set of double doors inlaid with spiky runes; they resembled, in a rather twisted fashion, the Enochian runes used by the angels and Aziraphale suspected they worked in much the same way. 

Beelzebub spotted his curious stare, “Lillum runezz. They zztop any demon except the Princezzz from dezzcending any further.” They looked to Crowley, “I can give you permizzion to enter but there’zz only one way Aziraphale will get down there with Erozz.”

They produced the black bag again and reached into it withdrawing a tiny bottle full of a dark liquid-

_ — the poison burned on its way down, seared every nerve, like choking down fire. He laughed at my struggle and poured more down my throat— _

Aziraphale hadn’t realised he was shaking, and he blinked away tears. Crowley growled.

“He’s in enough pain as it isss.” He hissed. Beelzebub didn’t put the bottle away, instead they looked at Aziraphale and held it out to him.

“Thizz izzz demon blood. You drink it and you can go into the pitzz without completely dezztroying yourzzelf. We uzze it to keep captive angelzz alive long enough to arrange a deal with Upztairzz, Barachiel’zz already had zzome.”

Aziraphale took the offered vial. The glass was pleasantly cool against his feverish skin and the liquid swirled inside almost on its own. Crowley hissed again but he sounded more resigned.

“And the side-effectsss?”

Beelzebub grimaced, “It’ll dampen your powerzz, effectively forcing your zzpirit to align with Hell, it’ll hurt but it’ll be temporary. You’d have to keep taking it for it to zzztart having a permanent effect. But we’re running out of time.”

Aziraphale heard Crowley suck in a breath, ready to argue, and at that same moment he felt the pain in his thighs creep higher and the fire under his skin burn just that little bit hotter.

What did he really have to lose?

If he didn’t do it, he’d lose Crowley.

He  _ couldn’t _ risk that.

In one smooth motion, almost as if he’d practiced, Aziraphale unscrewed the vial’s lid and downed the contents. It tasted vile, like foul tar and sulphuric rain and he coughed as it slid down his throat squirming like a living thing. He felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a voice that was unmistakeably Crowley’s, but he couldn’t reply, couldn’t  _ hear _ , over the shrieking maelstrom consuming his senses.

The light deep in his chest flickered and stuttered, dimming but refusing to go out. It was like a cold blanket was smothering the Grace that boiled in his veins and soothing the fire under his skin, even the agony shooting up his legs dulled into a sharp ache. Eventually the storm subsided, and he took a breath of fetid air that felt as fresh and crisp as the air on a particularly luscious spring day. Crowley was still speaking and Aziraphale shook his head back into focus.

“-aphale! Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” His voice sounded rough like he hadn’t had enough sleep, but it was still  _ his _ voice. He was still himself if a bit muted at the moment.

Beelzebub looked him up and down approvingly and then turned to Dagon, “Keep thingzz calm up here, I don’t want a zzzingle word of thizz zzpreading around.”

Dagon nodded and, with a little farewell grin, stalked back into the empty corridor followed by the guards.

Beelzebub watched her go and then pushed the doors open with a single touch, they walked through into the considerably darker corridor beyond but turned around when neither Crowley nor a slightly-less-angelic Aziraphale followed after them.

“The runezz won’t zztop you two, you’re under  _ my _ protection. Now come on.”

Aziraphale was moving before they finished their sentence and Crowley spat an impressively long list of swears as he hastened to catch up.

The corridor beyond the doors felt much older than the dank basement Aziraphale was now used to and it was much dimmer. The further they went the more uneven the floor got until Aziraphale was sure it was just uncut rock underneath his pale brown shoes and the walls were soon just roughly hewn stone that formed a simple tunnel. The pale luminescence lighting their way turned out to be small pools of bubbling sulphur that lined the wider sections like landing lights, occasionally spewing a few searing droplets high enough to hiss against the pockmarked ceiling.

Aziraphale could feel the heat of the larger pools deeper beneath him through his feet but the strange cold-blanket feeling muffled anything more. Beelzebub was muttering lowly to themselves as they walked, glancing back at him every few minutes with something much akin to concern in their watery eyes. Crowley was almost crushing his hand to reassure Aziraphale, or even himself—either way, Aziraphale was squeezing back just as hard. 

Eventually even the rough corridor disappeared and opened into a large cavern lit an eerie yellow by the massive pits either side of the hazy pathway. Crowley stiffened like a frightened cat but relaxed slightly when Aziraphale squeezed his hand all the more, trying to project safety and hope through the tiniest gesture he could manage so deep in this awful place. Beelzebub hadn’t hesitated and was instead steadily moving faster, doggedly refusing to look into the ever-shifting pools. The ground here was by no means flat and more than once Aziraphale nearly tripped up as he stepped into a smooth shallow dip in the rock. There seemed to be hundreds of them arranged around the shores of the pools and it slowed their pace considerably as both demon and sort-of-angel had to dance around the depressions to avoid falling flat on their faces. It was ridiculously tiring and—with the proximity of the pools—very, very dangerous.

Beelzebub seemed so familiar with the route that they weren’t even looking at the ground, skipping around the depressions in their way, and always, always refusing to look at the pools.

Aziraphale didn’t need to ask why.

The winding path seemed to go on forever and the pain was steadily building once more like ice slowly creeping through his veins. A badly misplaced step found him stumbling to the right, the sulphur pool agonisingly close… too close-

_ —acid, that’s new. Dissolving and burning. It hurts like the pools beyond this room, but it doesn’t stop at pain, it keeps eating away. Boils the skin and consumes the flesh beneath. He likes drawing with it— _

Crowley grabbed him before he fell another inch and Aziraphale mumbled an apology as he blinked the tears from his eyes. Abruptly he realised Beelzebub had stopped. The Prince stood before a truly gargantuan set of iron doors and if Aziraphale hadn’t known them better he would have said they were trembling.

“What’ss with the door?” Crowley hissed.

Beelzebub ignored the question, took an entirely unnecessary deep breath, and placed a palm on the door’s over-sized handle. With a ghostly creak that shuddered through the air, the double doors slowly swung inward and slammed dully into the walls with enough force to send minor shockwaves through the stone. With a confidence they clearly didn’t feel, Beelzebub stalked inside closely followed by Aziraphale and Crowley whose grip on the angel’s hand was unrelenting.

The corridor behind the suitably ominous doors was much shorter than the one leading from the basement and Aziraphale could  _ feel _ the intense demonic energy in the air. Something warm dripped down his chin and when he wiped it away the back of his hand came away  _ gold _ . Crowley noticed and hissed a low string of swears. Aziraphale felt a gentle arm encircle his waist and he gratefully leaned into it—the less contact he made with this poisonous ground the better. 

It only got worse as they ventured deeper into the throne room.

He should have realised what it was sooner—what with the gigantic throne at the room’s far end—but the sparse and often erratic lighting offered very limited visibility, that and his vision was going a bit foggy. 

Beelzebub hissed a curse as they stared at the empty throne.

“Gone. He’zz fucking  _ gone _ .”

Dimly Aziraphale was aware of the enormity of Lucifer’s disappearance, but the static building in his ears was clouding his ability to think straight. His legs gave out abruptly and Crowley was nearly dragged down with him. It was disconcerting but in a distant sort of way, he couldn’t feel it, at least not immediately. Instead of sharp pain spiking up his knees as they gouged themselves upon the merciless rock, it was a slow, intense ache that gradually spread from its epicentre to spear up his thighs and down his calves.

Beelzebub ran over and helped Crowley bring him back to his feet. The angel ended up having to lean on Crowley heavily as they moved closer to the vacant throne, the Prince hovering anxiously beside them; too nervous to move further away and still too much of a Hellish Prince to offer any further assistance.

They kept glancing towards the throne as if Lucifer was going to materialise out of the solid stone, “There’zz a room near the throne. No demon’zz ever been allowed in there, it might be where Erozzz izz being kept.”

They were almost whispering, the fly on their head alert and trying to watch all the corners of the room at once. It felt like they were conveying some sort of heinous secret and that in the act of divulging it they expected a lightning bolt to smite them where they stood and reduce them to ash. Aziraphale tried to give them an encouraging smile but the pain had returned with a vengeance in his jaw and he only managed a slight twitch of his lips.

The throne radiated demonic energy and Aziraphale had to fight to keep his eyes open despite the demon’s blood in his veins trying its best to negate the effects. Beelzebub’s hands had lengthened into those lethal chitinous claws in response to the intense power and Crowley was finding it difficult to walk properly as his body tried to revert back to a serpent. Aziraphale was even able to see—despite the slightly delirious haze consuming his mind—that thick scarlet scales were emerging on the column of the demon’s throat and smaller black scales were steadily growing out on the back of his hands.

As incongruous as it was given their circumstances, all Aziraphale could think of was how beautiful they were, shimmering in the burnished light of the sulphur pools.

It may have only taken a few minutes but by the time the group reached a seemingly impenetrable metal door, half-hidden in an alcove by the base of the throne, Aziraphale was almost unable to walk at all. His legs, instead of distantly aching, were entirely numb and he feared to try and move them lest the dreamy fog fall away to reveal they’d somehow disintegrated a few steps ago. His hands were beginning to go numb as well and he could feel that numbness spreading up his forearms. Beelzebub wasted no time at the infernal door and punched it in with a single kick, a kick strong enough to first bend then entirely unhinge the primitive door and send it careening into the wall of the corridor behind it where it embedded itself with enough force that the entire throne chamber rattled. The angel also felt the tell-tale backlash of spent energy as a particularly powerful ward was also helpfully shattered by the Prince.

Aziraphale felt Crowley readjust to his weight before following the Prince into the hidden chamber beyond. The floor was worn smooth as if hundreds of feet had routinely chipped away at the rock; presently it was helping Crowley maintain a steady, if slightly wavy, pace as he dragged both himself and Aziraphale forward. The feeling inside the chamber was somehow both better and worse than the throne room.

Better, because Aziraphale could finally feel a spark of divinity ahead, glowing with a familiar and friendly warmth.

And so much worse, because that feeling was so  _ utterly _ tainted by the overwhelming sense of  _ agony and fear and hopelessness and- _

“Oh  _ God _ …” Beelzebub uttered the blasphemous phrase under their breath like a curse, like the worst curse they could possibly imagine. The Prince stood in the room’s centre, clawed hands half-raised to their mouth in abject  _ horror _ , as they gazed at something behind a simple stone table. Crowley uttered a similarly blasphemous curse and simply stared, serpentine eyes wide behind dark lenses, his mouth working but no sound forthcoming.

Aziraphale tried to focus past the stone table, willing his eyes into ignoring the demonic poison in the very air, the stone, and under his own skin-

_ —hair falling in ragged bloody clumps— _

_ —left leg twisted, twisted until it snaps— _

_ —gouging fingers too near the eyes, in the eyes, the mouth, digging under the skin— _

_ —flesh torn out in chunks to the sound of soft laughter— _

_ —doing so  _ **_well_ ** _ , Love— _

_ —my perfect never-broken— _

_ —fingers breaking and healing, breaking again— _

_ —horns pushing through the skull, snapping and shattering— _

_ —arms growing, regrowing, snapping off faster than they can heal— _

_ —skin tearing, tears stinging the open cuts like acid— _

_ —stopitstopitstopitstopit— _

_ —ithurtsithurtsithurts— _

_ — _ _ helpmehelpmehelpme _ _ — _

_ —please— _

Aziraphale was frozen to the spot.

Even if Crowley had relinquished his grip the angel wouldn’t have moved a muscle. The shrieking memories assaulted every sense he possessed, he could  _ taste _ the salt of tears,  _ hear _ the snapping of bones,  _ smell _ the stinging copper of blood,  _ feel _ the agony of round after round of tearing, biting, and shredding skin.

And, worst of all, he could  _ see it _ .

He could see it  _ all _ .

Except this wasn’t through his mind’s eye. This wasn’t Eros shrieking her unspeakable torment into a void and releasing her innermost thoughts for him to experience.

No.

It was worse.

So, so much worse.

  
  


* * *

_ 1 _ _ Failing miserably on both counts given that chameleons and toads aren’t the best the animal kingdom has to offer when it comes to hand-eye coordination. Tongue-eye coordination maybe but no chameleon could ever be accused of being the next strictly-come-dancing star, and I’m not entirely sure toads know they have legs half the time anyway. _

_ 2 _ _ Aziraphale seriously doubted they were anything else unless the denizens of Hell enjoyed hefting around heavy weapons because it marked their status as secretaries. _

_ 3 _ _ Being a demon of course, this poor sap vehemently denied he had fainted out of sheer terror and insisted for quite a while afterwards that the Traitor had obviously pulled some sort of new ability on him. Eventually a completely different demon decked him in the face for his incessant protests and no one mentioned the incident any further. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah cliffhangers. I like cliffhangers.
> 
> Next time we get to find out what exactly is so horrifying, see you then :)
> 
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated.


	18. Horrors and Hospitals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eros returns and Aziraphale wakes up in Hell's attempt at a hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: as the chapter title suggests, this is one of the bad chapters. No real torture description in this one but there is a highly detailed description of a tortured body. HOWEVER this is only for the first bit. After the first *** the rest can be read as normal, just know that Eros, despite coming back, is in really rough shape.

It hung in front of him like a corpse strung out for the crows.

Six enormous wings were spread into a sickening halo, strung through with ancient chains and pinned like a trophy to the rough stone wall. Each feather, once such a lustrous gold, was dull and several were cracked straight through the shaft, hanging onto the wings only by their vanes entangling with their neighbours’. Half of one wing of the lowest set was entirely burned away, the muscle torn through and pitted with scars that had healed badly.

The wings were the only part still recognisable as belonging to that beautiful figure on Eden’s Eastern wall. The rest was…

‘Horrific’ didn’t suffice. The term simply wasn’t evocative enough. No words in any language could accurately convey the horror laid bare before Aziraphale. A horror that would have had the most hardened of demons screaming as they awoke, clutching the sheets with sweat-slick hands and a terrible clenching terror in their chest.

Hanging from the dusty, decaying wings was what he could only describe as a desiccated corpse. Pale skin with just the barest hint of gold was stretched too tightly over jutting bones. Once-lustrous chocolate brown hair was ragged against its scalp, great clumps missing revealing patches of yellowing bone beneath. Thick black chains pierced the flesh of its skeletal hands, forcing their way through rotten tissue and holding them down in a supplicating gesture. Its feet were similarly run through with the abhorrent alternative manacles and both sets of chains ran to a single set point in the black rock before the corpse.

The barest remnants of a dress clung tightly to the bony form, scraps of cloth barely covering the ashen skin of its chest and forming a loose skirt around its hips.

This exposure did nothing to cover up the multitude of vicious scars and burns and lashes and chunks of missing flesh. It absolutely did not hide the stumps of broken horns protruding from its forehead or conceal the remnants of extra limbs mixing badly with its own—shards of unnecessary bone pushing through the skin where no bones should be.

All of this was positively tame when compared to the face.

Aziraphale could remember that face smiling at him. Golden eyes ringed with spectacular blue sparkling in the sunlight of the First Day. The corners crinkling as she laughed, her cheeks dimpling, the golden flecks of ancient Grace shimmering in her cheeks.

What rested before him, layered with dust, abandoned for millennia, was nothing but a hideous  _ mask _ .

Empty sockets stared at him from a grinning skull, skin pulled taut over jutting cheekbones and hollow cheeks.

_He_ _couldn’t look away_.

He took a step forward and was faintly surprised when he didn’t collapse without Crowley’s support. Those sockets kept staring at him and he wondered how many times Lucifer had stared at the eyes that had once resided in those empty holes, how many times those eyes had pleaded, begged,  _ screamed _ for mercy only to be ignored.

It took a few steps for Aziraphale to end up standing directly in front of the hanging body. It was hung slightly above the floor by the chained wings and as such Aziraphale had to look slightly up to stare directly into those rotting sockets. Unbidden by any force other than his own instinct he raised his shaking hands and lightly caressed the forbidding skull’s forehead.

There was a twitch deep inside his mind which faded as soon as he let his fingers inch away from the spongy surface. Inhaling deeply though his mouth he reached up again and pressed his fingers into the skull’s flesh, willing Eros forward.

His fingertips began to glow a deep gold, a sonorous thrum echoed from somewhere in the chamber, it vibrated through his numb legs and into his torso, clenching his heart and travelling along his arms. He pressed harder, forcing the glowing digits to nearly connect with the bone beneath the fetid flesh.

He realised he was muttering something under his breath, a slow steady chant of  _ please, please, please _ . The fire beneath his skin erupted anew as that presence, that wonderfully  _ divine _ presence, enveloped his being once more. She wasted no time in traversing his outstretched limbs, trickling down his arms like pleasantly cool water taking away the worst of the fire’s heat.

The skin beneath his fingers began to glow and he held the digits there determinedly. The thrum echoed louder in pitch, endlessly reverberating around the chamber, rattling the chains and making Aziraphale’s teeth ache.

_ He did not let go _ .

He was aware someone was screaming, it might even have been him, but when he opened his eyes he saw the jaw of the grinning mask had slid open and a terrible  _ wailing _ was tearing its way out past the exposed teeth, rattling in the rotten throat. Aziraphale pressed harder, willing Eros through him, helping her pass from his body to her own. The thrum was now a high-pitched whine and it was all Aziraphale could do not to remove his fingers and cover his own ears to block out the sound.

Eros was still shrieking, a constant wavering note of pain, and as Aziraphale stared at the glowing corpse before him he felt a Change. The papery skin grew a healthy shade once more as he looked on, flesh swelled beneath the dirty rags encircling her chest and waist and the skin beneath his fingers was no longer spongy but smooth and oh so  _ warm _ . Soon her voluminous hair sprayed from her scalp in a soft chocolate fountain, a curtain of soothing brown that framed a face rapidly filling with flesh. Lips covered the exposed teeth, plump and healthy, and her cheeks filled out, erasing the gaunt grimace that had hung there before.

Then her eyes snapped open and, for the first time in more than 6000 years, the Principality assigned to guard the Eastern Gate of Eden was once more privy to the complete and utter attention of Love herself.

There was a trickle of water by his feet.

Thick streams of tears were pouring from those lovely eyes and Aziraphale came back to himself in time to watch the chains pinning her wings to the cavern wall shatter. A smaller explosion by his feet told him the restraints embedded in her limbs had been similarly obliterated as Eros, Lilith, and Love collapsed into his arms.

***

Aziraphale woke up and was momentarily very, very confused.

At first, he was utterly convinced he was still sleeping, and he was having one of those odd lucid dreams he’d heard Crowley go on about. Any minute he would wake up for real and the pain would come flooding back. He curled up tighter under the surprisingly fluffy duvet like a child who didn’t want to get up yet and tried to will himself back to sleep before his body realised his mind had dredged itself from hibernation and decided to reactivate his nerves at the highest sensitivity.

A few minutes later he conceded he was most definitely awake. No dream could possibly be this lucid. For one thing he kept trying to imagine Crowley into existence beside him and the demon was stubbornly refusing to materialise. 

At that moment something creaked behind him and in a fit of tightly wound and slightly sleepy panic Aziraphale scrambled upright, fighting against the blankets he had wrapped so closely around himself. Steady hands stopped his struggling and the panic faded away to reveal Crowley, sans his usual glasses, staring at him with a look of infinite relief.

“Woah, easy there, angel. It’s okay.”

Crowley gently helped Aziraphale sit up properly, his long-fingered hands unusually gentle. Once the angel was properly laid against a wall of feather-soft pillows and the duvet pulled up to his chest, Crowley sat down on the bed with him. Aziraphale found himself smiling, a little giddily to be sure, but it was nice to smile for real.

“How long have I been out?” He asked, voice noticeably husky with sleep. He felt good, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, there wasn’t any pain. He hadn’t realised how used to the feeling he had become but now that his skin was no longer burning, now that he no longer held back a wince at the slightest wrong movement, oh he felt  _ glorious _ .

Crowley’s small genuine smile was the perfect cherry on this metaphorical cake.

“Around about a day, I honestly thought you’d sleep longer.”

Aziraphale laughed softly, “I seem to be doing that a lot lately, dear.”

At that precise moment another revelation helpfully decided to make itself known and Aziraphale was honestly at a loss as to how he hadn’t noticed it before.

Eros was gone

Almost on reflex Aziraphale reached out into his subconscious, calling out to her. Nothing. Just a slight hum where she used to be, an echo of her that he knew would forever remain within him like a washed-out stain on some clothes 1 . Crowley seemed to be able to read his thoughts and he reached over to take Aziraphale’s hand in his own, gently running one black-fingernailed thumb across the angel’s knuckles.

“What about Eros? Is she- did she-?”

“She’s fine. Sorta. She’s in a different room.” Crowley looked towards the only door in sight and sighed, “You remember… how we found her?”

_ —grinning skull beneath his fingertips, flesh pulled much too tight against bone, so many scars— _

“Yes. Yes, I remember.” Aziraphale felt sick and he desperately tried to banish the repulsive memories deeper down where they could stew with a thousand others just like them. Being on Earth exposed one to much that was beautiful, but just as much that was ugly.

Nothing had ever been as bad as  _ that _ , though.

Crowley looked about as uncomfortable as Aziraphale felt and the demon swallowed reflexively, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“I… When you fainted, angel… Shit, I panicked. Beelzebub wasn’t doing much better. You were cold when I got to you and I couldn’t- I couldn’t feel you anymore. It was like you’d  _ left _ . Like you’d discorporated but had left your body behind.” He looked to Aziraphale again and the angel smiled tenderly.

“And then?”

“Beelzebub sent some sort of distress call or something. Nearly half of Hell showed up, I think. It was fucking nuts. Beelzebub managed to gather enough strength to miracle all four of us up here and I got you into a bed. They escorted Eros to her own room, and I’ve been here ever since.”

Aziraphale nearly melted into the pillows, caught off-guard by the wave of love that swamped his senses, “Oh, Crowley…”

Crowley curled his lip in a very poor imitation of a leer, “Don’t mention it, angel. Seriously, I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Of course, dear, wouldn’t want to tarnish such a sterling thing, now would we?” Crowley raised an eyebrow and said nothing, but his smirk spoke volumes. Aziraphale giggled.

A comfortable silence then fell over them both. So many questions still burned on Aziraphale’s tongue, but he found himself much too tired to voice them. How ironic that he’d spent the past six thousand years avoiding sleep only to have slept more in the past few weeks than Crowley usually managed in six months. He was just so tired…

With a jolt he snapped his eyes open. He’d closed them for but a moment but apparently that had been all his treacherous body had needed. He was lying curled into a warm something in a veritable nest of soft duvets and pillows. Blearily he realised the warm something was breathing and that it smelled of sandalwood and smoke.

A sleepy part of him registered how very inappropriate it was of him to be snuggled into a demon’s chest as if it were the last safe place on Earth. Another equally sleepy part told that one to kindly shut the fuck up. Annoyingly Crowley still had a shirt on and Aziraphale chose to ignore the plethora of new thoughts popping up in response to  _ that _ . Eventually the more rational part of his mind 2 woke up and Aziraphale tried to wiggle out of Crowley’ grip, hoping that with the demon being asleep he’d manage to edge his way out without much of a fuss.

Unluckily for him, Crowley had him in an iron grip and the angel found that any attempt to wriggle away was met with gentle but firm resistance. He was staying here apparently. Not that he minded much.

“Where’d you think you’re going, angel?” Asked a sleepy sounding voice somewhere near his hair.  


Aziraphale shrugged half-heartedly, he was so warm right here he thought he might just fall asleep again, but those irritating questions had come rocketing back and were currently buzzing through his head at the speed of light.

“How long this time?” He asked in lieu of asking any sort of serious question lest he break this very lovely moment. Crowley hummed and Aziraphale felt the vibration echo in Crowley’s chest through his cheek.

“’Bout five hours, I think. Got cold and you looked too cosy for your own good.”

Aziraphale smiled into Crowley’s red shirt, “Really?”

“Yep,” Crowley said, popping the ‘p’, “You’re like an easy-bake oven. Most of Hell would give someone’s right arm for a chance to sleep here.”

“That’s not very likely with you here though, is it dear?”

Crowley laughed quietly, “Fuck no.”

Aziraphale wriggled into motion once more except this time he wriggled upwards so he could look Crowley in the eye. Had this happened before, Aziraphale would have been blushing scarlet like a Victorian noblewoman in a terrible romance novel. All stammering and stuttering excuses. Now though, now this just felt  _ right _ .

Crowley’s golden eyes came into view just a few inches from Aziraphale’s blue ones—yes this felt just right.

“Your eyes’re still different, angel,” Crowley murmured, squinting, “No gold but still got more blues than you should.”

Aziraphale sighed, “Probably for the best, dear, my eyes were never very interesting.”

They really hadn’t been. Aziraphale’s eyes had been a very plain and solid sky blue. He’d never had anything exotic like Gabriel’s violet eyes or anything as wonderful as Crowley’s golden ones. So, the fact that those dull orbs had been... spiced up a little, made him smile.

Crowley, however, was frowning.

“Your eyes weren’t boring, angel.”

Aziraphale huffed a laugh, hating how strained the noise was, “Thank you my dear but they really-"  


“Were the most sodding gorgeous things I’d ever seen.” Crowley finished tersely, his own magnificent eyes glaring and glowing slightly, “Really, angel. They were, and still are, amazing.”

Aziraphale felt something in his chest clench but for once it was clearly not Eros. No, that feeling was all his own, all his, and it seemed to be making up for lost time with the way his heart was palpitating. Belatedly he realised just how close his face was to Crowley’s, their noses were almost touching, and he could see his reflection in those slit-pupiled eyes. It would be so  _ easy _ to just lean forward and… No, he couldn’t. This was just desperation, wasn’t it? A lingering echo of Eros’ confidence. Of course, Crowley had become more intimate in the weeks leading up to this little… fiasco, but that didn’t mean much.

Hardly anything.

He had probably just been teasing him, the old serpent.

He didn’t know who leaned in first and a moment later he no longer cared. Lips locked in an achingly passionate kiss, Aziraphale groaned and heard an answering grumble from Crowley. The demon’s hands stopped crush-hugging him and instead found their place on his right hip and behind his head, tangled in those platinum curls that hadn’t changed in forever. Aziraphale responded in kind, tugging Crowley closer to him under the soft weight of blankets and displaced pillows. He felt a hand curl under the soft shirt he was wearing, and the coolness of the demon’s skin was like a pleasant balm against his own. Crowley reached for Aziraphale’s shirt buttons, careful not to break the kiss, and had undone several by the time the bedroom door slammed open.

Beelzebub staggered in, looking like they’d flown through a hurricane backwards with black hair flying every which way and the fly atop their head buzzing like a faulty alarm.

“Crowley! We’ve got… a… zzituation…” They took in the scene with wide eyes. Aziraphale supposed he looked quite debauched and, to his embarrassment, a soft blush rose like a sunrise across his cheeks. Beelzebub took a step back and averted their eyes, “Oh… zzorry-yeah zzzorry. I’ll be-be going, yep! Going! Lailah needzz you, by the way. Juzzt- juzzt… yep!”

They beat a hasty retreat into the corridor and the door swung closed.

There was a beat of silence before the two scrambled apart, half-hearted apologies shared equally between them. The next moment found Aziraphale untangling himself from the sheets whilst Crowley did the same. The radiant blush was still hot across his cheeks but Aziraphale chose to ignore it in favour of getting some proper clothes on. The black t-shirt he was wearing was comfortable but much too in line with Crowley’s ‘casual’ clothing for his liking. He was in Hell and right now he was rather desperate for some sort of reminder of the divine 3 and as such he found himself, to his delight, back in a nice cream jumper with matching soft brown trousers.

When he turned around Crowley was once more in his ridiculously tight black skinny jeans and black jacket and the ubiquitous sunglasses were back on as if they’d never left. 

“Crowley, dear?” He asked—as if the past five minutes had been some sort of wonderful delusion—“Could you perhaps tell me where  _ exactly _ we are in Hell before we leave to meet with this Lailah?”

Crowley sighed (any sign of his irritation and utter fury at being interrupted when they had been _so_ _close_ hidden under his usual placid mask) checking that his glasses were firmly in place, “It’s some sort of… hospital, I think? Yeah, apparently some demonic wounds are unmiracl- inmiracl- not able to be miracled away and they needed someplace to keep them ‘til they stopped complaining.”

Aziraphale gave a wry smile, “How kind.”

Crowley groaned, “It’s about as kind as they get down here, angel. Plus, you can’t have demons having kids in the corridors, think of the mess. Actually,” He wrinkled his nose, “Don’t. Don’t think of the mess. Just think of the… the kids. Yeah, the kids. Focus on that.”

“Alright, dear. So how many demons have been born here?”

Crowley shrugged, rolling his shoulders as they popped, “Dunno. Hundred, maybe? Hell’s already got a substantial army so there wasn’t much of a demand for new soldiers. Any kids that did happen were either accidental or were formed for a specific purpose. Like Eric.”

Aziraphale looked up, “Eric’s a Hellspawn?”

“Yep. He’s the only demon in Hell that can do that fancy multiplying trick. He’s both invaluable and disposable so he tends to get assigned around a lot. Don’t envy him for the job though.” Crowley finished checking his glasses and stepped towards the door. Aziraphale followed behind, resolutely ignoring Crowley’s swaying hips and then _also_ resolutely ignoring every thought _related_ to those hips. The door opened with a groaning creak 4 and Crowley held it open for Aziraphale. Like the oddly comfortable room behind him the corridor of the ‘hospital’ was well lit with very clean grey walls and floors. It almost looked like Heaven if Gabriel had suddenly gone goth.

The thought of the Archangel wiped the fragile smile from Aziraphale’s face.

True he’d never liked Gabriel, and the Archangel  _ had _ attempted to execute him, but he hadn’t deserved such a brutal death. He must have felt so very alone in that alleyway, confronted with a monster great enough to kill him with ease.

He must have been terrified.

“-phale?”

“Hm? What?” Aziraphale looked up to find Crowley standing beside him in the achingly clean corridor with a slight frown on his face.

“Are you okay, angel? Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

Aziraphale blinked owlishly and shook his head, “No, dear. I was just… distracted for a minute. I apologise.”

Crowley nodded but didn’t look very convinced, “Right. Come on.”

If Aziraphale didn’t know for a fact that he was in Hell, he wasn’t sure he would have been able to guess. This place felt much higher ‘Up’ than the dank, overcrowded basement he knew, and he had to concentrate in order to find any sort of discomfort in his Grace; he had also yet to see a single demon. The corridor was lined with many slate grey doors, but Crowley ignored them and kept walking so Aziraphale followed suit.

Another nagging question rose in his throat and he spoke before he could stop himself, “Is Eros… okay, Crowley? I mean I remember what she looked like but…” His words faltered and he shut his mouth. Truthfully, he wasn’t at all sure he  _ wanted _ to know but if this Lailah was caring for Eros, he supposed advance warning might help.

Crowley was silent for a good long while as he paused outside of an intersection where two demons 5 stood as guards outside of yet another of the very innocuous slate grey doors.

Crowley sighed, “She isn’t doing too well angel. Not at all. I’ve never seen Beelzebub so angry in all my life. Gave me fucking goosebumps.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale said. The explanation told him nothing, but anything had to be better than that death mask that kept swamping his vision every time he blinked. She had to look human at the very least.

Before he could speak again the guarded door creaked open and a slender woman walked out in a simple black shirt and long black skirt. A long whip-like tail revealed her true nature as did her frankly disturbingly red eyes. She glanced between the two of them with what looked like surprise before homing in on Aziraphale.

“Ah, good, you’re up. I was concerned your trip into Hell’s depths would send your body into shock.” She stalked forward on surprisingly skinny hoofed legs that clicked like high heels and leaned down slightly to look him in the face.

“Eyes are no longer gold, interesting, and there physically appears to be no residual harmful effects of the blood perhaps if I-” Her hand reached out, aiming for his cheek, before Crowley slapped it away. Aziraphale blinked several times and shook his head for good measure. Her gaze was rather hypnotic. 

“That’s enough, Lailah. Beelzebub said there was an emergency. I’d rather not have to tell them about you harassing Lilith’sss favourite angel. Doubt the Council would take it well.” Crowley’s tongue whipped out for a brief second and Lailah came back to herself, clasping her hands neatly in front of her.

“Of course. My… apologies.” Her mouth twisted as she said the word but there was no venom in it.

Crowley’s lips curled in a grimace, but he merely repeated, “Emergency?”

Lailah’s eyes darkened, “Yes. I assume Beelzebub was rather crass and failed to inform you of the details?”

Crowley nodded6, “You could say that.”

“Hm, well I suppose a visual demonstration would be the best possible explanation. If you both would follow me.” She turned on her heel (hoof?) and marched back to the door. Aziraphale trailed after her and attempted to ignore the scrutinising glares of the guards but he couldn’t suppress a shiver.

The room behind the door was larger than his own and much more richly appointed with a large king-sized bed taking up a good portion of the space and multiple racks of what looked like simple medical supplies lining the walls. Lailah moved to the side and Aziraphale had to suppress a gasp and he heard Crowley do the same.

Occupying the bed, looking terribly small under black sheets, lay the heavily bandaged form of Eros.

She lay on her front with all six ravaged wings propped up by mountains of soft pillows. Her chocolate hair was brushed to one side—empty of even a single budding flower—to reveal a face still beautiful under the bruises and shattered remnants of horns.

With a start Aziraphale realised she was crying.

Big, fat tears of gold were sliding down her mottled cheeks and collected on the pillow, burning through it as easily as lava would with cloth.

Lailah was speaking but something deep within Aziraphale was already reacting.

Principalities weren’t very high up in Heaven’s pecking order, true, but he had still been Created to guard Eden. That deep-rooted need to  _ protect _ had never left him. It had been what had persuaded him to give his sword to the original Adam, it had been what had nudged him to offer Crowley shelter under his wing, it had been what had forced Eros into jumping to Crowley’s defence when Aziraphale had been too weak to do so himself, it had been what had urged him to comfort Beelzebub as they cried into his shoulder.

That urge pushed him forward now.

The sight of Eros—the sight of such a beautiful, tortured being crying—made something within him click. Something that had only really ever clicked for one other person; someone he had comforted as they cried into the angel’s shoulder about the deaths of the children who didn’t get onto the Ark, about the victims of the plagues, about the orphans of the wars.

Eros had protected Crowley when Aziraphale hadn’t been able to.

In the end it wasn’t much of a decision.

  
  


* * *

_ 1 _ _ Not, he reminded himself, that his clothes had ever had such a stain. Crowley really was a dear. _

_ 2 _ _ The one not so hopelessly in league with his heart and other… areas. _

_ 3 _ _ He resolutely did not think of the much too divine taste still lingering on his lips. _

_ 4 _ _ It should be said that despite most demon’s crying or bleeding oil, almost all of Hell’s doors creak. Many demons have tried to properly oil the doors, but it never lasts. It is Hell after all. Appropriately Heaven’s doors open silently and smoothly, which is good, but a great many angels have accidentally discorporated due to fright when a colleague managed to sneak up behind them with no warning. Although if you ever asked Michael, she would fervently deny it. _

_ 5 _ _ One hefting a wicked looking spear, and the other wielding what looked like the unhappy bastard of a sword and a crowbar. The demon guard in question had never really been one for using proper weapon etiquette and as a result there was a wall somewhere deep in Hell with an extremely squashed bug embedded in its face because he’d forgotten swords were not maces. _

_ 6Crowley could think of several **other** things to call Beelzebub, several **unprintable** things. Mainly starting with f's and c's and the occasional s. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of an emotional whiplash with this one, huh?  
> And do you remember earlier how 'Crowley didn't want his first kiss with Aziraphale be witnessed by _Beelzebub_ of all people'? Sorry Crowley, looks like it happened anyways. Better luck next time.
> 
> Tomorrow: Aziraphale shows off his field medic skills, Crowley is annoyed, and Beelzebub finds out just how difficult it is to rule Hell without the Devil.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, comments and kudos are very welcome and greatly appreciated :)


	19. Healing the Old-fashioned Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale dust-off old medical skills whilst Beelzebub deals with the reality of running Hell without the Devil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning for blood and sorta-surgery. Its not too big of an issue but still, ye have been warned.

“—there he is—“

“—quiet—“

“—he’ll hear—“

Crowley marched through Hell with his head held high. He imagined he looked slightly ridiculous with his leather-clad arms full of bandages and other medical accoutrement, but it seemed the rest of Hell couldn’t care less what he looked like.

The corridor demons treated him the same way as that boring demon who worked in the supply department 1 , i.e. fucking terrified.

Well, Crowley corrected himself, not  _ exactly _ terrified. More like… reverential or something equally weird. The second he had strode into that dingy little office with the sign reading ‘Supplies’ 2 it felt like he had just carried a very obvious bomb into an airport. The demon frozen behind his desk had not dared to look him in the eye and only looked up from his hands crossed in his lap when Crowley had slammed a list of needed medical items on the grimy counter.

The paper was covered in Aziraphale’s elegant script and the demon, somehow, was  _ more _ silent after he read it. Two minutes later Crowley had emerged, arms stuffed, feeling like he was missing something.

The crowds parted before him like water in the presence of increasingly bemused oil and he made it to the ‘hospital’ with time to spare. Overall the journey had taken maybe ten minutes when he knew for a bloody  _ fact _ that supply runs could take weeks, if you were lucky. This was, he mused as he set about hurrying through the now-memorised maze of corridors, just one of the many weird benefits of being one of Lilith’s ‘attendants’. 

Beelzebub had ordered a state of emergency and it hadn’t taken long for the population to suss out that their King had fucked off; which had almost caused a mutiny of sorts until the Prince helpfully mentioned that Lilith had returned. Now Hell was in a strange sort of limbo, waiting with bated breath for Lilith to emerge and take charge in Lucifer’s place.

Crowley chuckled darkly to himself. They’d have to wait a  _ long _ time for that. Eros hadn’t woken since she’d been rescued and she hadn’t shown any signs of doing so; not that Crowley could blame her, he’d sleep for another millennium too if he’d gone through what she had.

The two guards waved him through immediately and Crowley edged his way into Eros’ room.

“Delivery, angel!”

Aziraphale glanced up, looking odd in his cream jumper, and a smile lit up his face like the sun. Crowley wondered when he’d get to see the sun again, but that smile would do him for now.

“Excellent, dear. They did have the extra bandages, yes?” Aziraphale moved around the massive bed and took a few rolls from Crowley’s bundle and some medical tape. Crowley shuffled over to a spare shelf and dumped the rest; pausing to sift through the pile and sort it into the correct categories. Bandages, tape, antibacterial wipes, gauze, the whole bloody nine first-aid yards. He turned to watch Aziraphale delicately peel off a layer of bandages stiff with dark blood off Eros’ arm and add it to the growing refuse pile by the bedside. Lailah would miracle that away later, but Crowley was gratified to see that the pile was smaller than yesterday’s.

“’Course they had the extras, this  _ is _ Lilith we’re talking about, angel. No one wants to disappoint their Mum—‘specially when He’s fucked off to who-knows-where.”

Aziraphale chuckled, although it sounded a bit dry. He gently set Eros’ arm down, freshly rewrapped in downy bandages, and set about unwrapping the other one. Wordlessly he held out a hand and Crowley slapped a pack of antibacterial wipes into it. Again, technically Eros was in no need of anything antibacterial considering she wasn’t human but Aziraphale had insisted that he wasn’t taking any chances and that the wipes were useful for cleaning up blood if nothing else. If Eros had been anybody else all it would have taken was a few powerful miracles and a couple days to readjust but, lucky them, miracles had had bugger-all effect and had just succeeded in forcing Aziraphale to take a three-hour nap. So, the angel had settled with more human medical treatments and daily bouts of something he called ‘Grace-Heal’ wherein Crowley and Lailah would have to scarper lest Eros’ raw Grace flay them alive as Aziraphale gently nudged it into healing with his own. It did seem to be working but every time Crowley re-entered the room after Aziraphale signalled the okay, the angel was always grey-skinned and would need another nap, a five-hour one usually but Crowley had waited longer once or twice.

Two taps on his elbow recaptured his attention and Crowley turned slightly. Aziraphale was smiling gently and gestured to the small pair of pliers near Crowley’s elbow.

“Sorry, dear, could I have those?”

“Oh, err, yeah. Yeah, angel.” He passed the tool over and Aziraphale took it gratefully. Glancing past the angel’s shoulder Crowley noticed why he needed them. Two shards of bone had broken the skin just beneath Eros’ elbow and the flesh around them had swollen uncomfortably.

“Gonna pull them, angel?”

Aziraphale glanced back and grimaced, “Unfortunately so, my dear, if I leave them, they’ll only get worse.”

Aziraphale edged forward on the bed, gently avoiding the small towers of pillows propping up Eros’ enormous wings. Carefully he lifted the pale arm up and fumbled for the pliers.

“Here, angel, let me.” Shuffling into position, kicking off his shoes lest Lailah berate him again for ‘dirtying the bed’, he picked up the pliers whilst Aziraphale held the arm steady.

“On three my dear?”

Crowley fixed the plier’s teeth around the smaller of the two shards and resolutely ignored the thick welling red just beneath the skin, mottling the otherwise smooth flesh.

“Yep.”

“One.”

His hands were sweating and he miracled it away without a second thought.

“Two.”

Crowley hoped this time the shard wasn’t attached to fused bone. He could do without being sick again.

“ _ Three _ !”

With a rather heroic tug the shard came free, held captive by the plier’s teeth. A considerable amount of blood welled up and he miracled a fresh towel onto the wound. It was soaked through in seconds and a further two towels went the same way before the flow slowed to a trickle.

“Well, that went better than last time, dear.” Aziraphale commented, dryly. 

Crowley shuddered,  “I told you that one had been too close to an artery, angel.”

Aziraphale had the grace to look slightly sheepish, “It wasn’t  _ that _ bad, my dear.”

Crowley spluttered indignantly, “Not b- angel it went in my sodding  _ mouth _ !”

“I did tell you to keep it closed.”

Crowley’s mouth worked for a moment before he shut it with a huff, knowing all too well that to further belabour the point would be useless, “Never mind. Next one?”

“Whenever you’re ready, dear.”

This time the plier’s teeth couldn’t close completely around the shard but after testing it with a few short tugs Crowley deemed it safe to try. Another countdown and six towels later, Aziraphale was busy bandaging the now rather swollen elbow and Crowley was mopping his face with a damp cloth.

“Well at least it wasn’t arterial this time.” Aziraphale said, sounding slightly smug. Crowley considered sticking his tongue out but satisfied himself with lobbing the stained facecloth at the small pile of bloody debris by the bedside. Aziraphale had returned to inspecting the bandages on Eros’ midriff when Crowley looked up again, and the angel spared him a small smile before beginning to unwrap the blood-stiffened cloth from around a particularly nasty reopened wound in her side.

“Crowley, dear? Could you get me the sutures?”

A quick trip to the relevant pile later, Crowley held Eros steady whilst Aziraphale expertly stitched the wound again. 

“Didn’t we do this two days ago, angel?” Crowley asked as Aziraphale began to wrap the wound in gauze.

“Oh, yes dear. We did. But the stitches keep breaking. The wound  _ is _ getting smaller, just at a much slower pace than I’d like.”

“You and me both, angel. When d’you think she’ll wake up?” Crowley handed over the medical tape again, and Aziraphale frowned slightly.

“I don’t know. If she were human… Well, I certainly wouldn’t expect her to wake up after only six days of unconsciousness. To be completely honest in her condition, if she were human, I wouldn’t expect her to wake up for the next few months. But,” He added hurriedly to cut off Crowley’s burgeoning groan, “She is most definitely not human, so my frame of reference is rather useless.”

There was the tell-tale squeak of hinges before Crowley felt a familiar and haughty presence behind him.

“According to Beelzebub’s report, Eros resurrected her own corporation merely by re-inhabiting it, so any points of reference I possess on the healing capabilities of either demons or angels does not apply here either.” Lailah stalked forward 3 and passed a fresh roll of bandages to Aziraphale. Crowley withheld the urge to manifest his wings and bare his suddenly-much-less-human teeth at the simple gesture. It was nothing, Lailah was just being helpful.

It was Hell, that’s why he was so jumpy. Yeah, that was it.

Aziraphale’s thoughtful hum brought him back to reality in time to hear the angel ask, “So no demon or angel has ever been able to re-inhabit an old corporation of theirs?”

Lailah shook her head, black hair bouncing in its loose bun, “No. Not one. In every case the corporation has either disintegrated upon ‘death’ or has been left far too damaged to even consider trying. Lilith is powerful enough to not only create a corporation without the aid of a realm like Heaven or Hell but to be able to heal that corporation enough so it was inhabitable merely through her own presence. It’s utterly fascinating.”

“And bloody terrifying.” Crowley muttered but Lailah took no notice as she gently lifted Eros’ hand in her own.

“Think about it," She said, almost to herself, “She’s still so weak and yet she was able to do the  _ impossible _ .”

Aziraphale smiled a little sadly, “She is extraordinary, dear.”

Crowley bristled slightly at the endearment, but a reasonable voice pointed out that the angel did that to practically everybody. Lailah was no exception.

Lailah was also currently staring at Aziraphale with  _ that _ look.

The one she had regularly cornered the angel with when her curiosity got the better of her.

“Yes, yes you’d know. She was  _ inside you _ . How did it feel?”

Aziraphale sighed, “It hurt.”

That, Crowley knew, was a  _ fucking understatement _ .

In the darkness of the room they shared Crowley had listened to Aziraphale tell him  _ everything _ . The burning under his skin, the stabbing agony in his legs, the inescapable drowsiness that painted it all with fuzzy edges. If it had been half as bad as Crowley could imagine, and he was good at imagining things, then he was of the mind to never let the angel out of his sight again. The first night they had slept here in the hospital after tending to Eros, Crowley had awoken to Aziraphale shaking like an angelic leaf. He could tell he’d been trying to keep quiet from the strangled gasps and near-silent whimpers and after Aziraphale realised Crowley was awake he’d attempted to brush it off as a mere nightmare.

It was safe to say that Crowley didn’t buy that, and the rest of the ‘night’ was spent with Aziraphale’s face pressed into Crowley’s chest as the demon whispered soothingly and tried to figure out a way to comfort him properly.

Back in the present, however, Lailah was, once again, far overstepping her bounds and Aziraphale needed another rescue. If Crowley had been half a second quicker, it would have been him who stopped Lailah from trying to touch the angel’s face. As it was, he was barely coming out of his crouch on the bed when the other demon was flung to the opposite bedroom wall and hung there, visibly stunned, as if held by an invisible hand.

There was a beat of silence so profound Crowley fancied he could hear Aziraphale’s heart pounding away just a few feet away from his own.

And then, in a voice that was scratchy and rough, so much so that it made Crowley wince in a bout of entirely undemonic empathy 4 , came a tentative, “Hello Aziraphale.”

***

“Get out of the fucking way!”

Demons of all sizes and ranks were quick to step aside, even if it meant squashing uncomfortably into one another, so that the Prince, and temporary ruler of Hell, could pass by unobstructed. The entrance to the hospital was heavily guarded but the second the trio of heavily armed and armoured demons saw Beelzebub marching down the corridor they quickly parted ranks with one helpfully opening the door.

Six days.

Six  _ fucking _ days.

There was an old human saying, probably from the Bible, in which Satan had apparently announced ‘ _ It is better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven _ .’ Or something to that effect. Beelzebub chuckled darkly. Whichever clever-ass priest had thought  _ that _ one up could think again. Ruling Hell wasn’t a cushy job for one single ridiculously obvious reason.

Ruling Hell meant ruling over  _ demons _ . And demons, as Beelzebub knew from extensive experience, were inherently inclined to  _ rebel _ . That being the entire bloody reason they had Fallen in the first place. So, ruling over them tended to, more often than not, end in violence and at least one severed head. Unless, of course, you happen to be someone they respected enough not to challenge.

Up until recently that honour had been Lucifer’s alone. Not one demon in Hell wasn’t terrified of the King, and the only demon to have ever stood up against him had had both the Antichrist  _ and _ an apparent immunity to holy water to work in his favour. Everyone else had pledged their loyalty out of fear of extinction. Life as a demon was shit, sometimes almost literally, but it was still  _ life, _ and no one could accuse the legions of Hell of being intentionally suicidal.

Now, though, now Lucifer is gone. In his absence, it only made sense to Beelzebub—and the other Princes—that the knowledge of Lilith and her confirmed existence should be distributed among the denizens of Hell as quickly as fucking possible, lest some idiot get it in their heads that there was a power vacuum to take advantage of. Of course, this hadn’t stopped the myriad of tiny riots among all of Hell’s circles, and the ease with which they were quelled only made it more infuriating that they had to waste their time on them at all when there were much bigger concerns requiring their attention—concerns of the Heavenly kind. 

Hence the irate march into the hospital.

The news that Lilith—Beelzebub was still struggling to remember to call her Eros—was now awake had travelled like wildfire throughout all nine circles and was only half an hour old by the time Beelzebub had got wind of it as they crushed yet another tiny rebellion in the sixth circle. Their subsequent trip back to the first circle had probably broken several laws of physics but the Prince wasn’t one to care for such trivial things. Especially not now.

The maze of slate-grey hospital corridors was easily navigated, and they arrived at the familiar dark grey door almost immediately. The two guards outside stood ramrod straight as if they had only just realised their posting was serious. Lailah stood outside as well, grinning a little manically despite the wicked bruise running down one arm. She saw Beelzebub and stalked over, limping slightly.

“You heard?” Lailah dispensed with any title which, if she had been any other demon, would have earned her a suitably harsh punishment depending on Beelzebub’s mood. She was, however, special in that regard considering she was a healer and her slip-up earned her no more than a raised eyebrow.

“Of courzze. Izzz she zztill awake?”

If Beelzebub didn’t know better, they would have said Lailah was shaking with excitement. In reality, she was almost vibrating.

“Yep. Definitely awake. And her powers appear unaffected by her trauma.”

Beelzebub raised the eyebrow a bit further, “And your arm?”

Lailah nodded, “An unfortunate side-effect. I had no idea how protective she was of that angel.” The younger demon huffed and raised her arm to stare at the mottling purple of the already-fading bruise, “He’s a good healer. That angel.”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes, “Obviouzzly. He’zz an  _ angel _ . Healing’zz their thing.”

Lailah flushed slightly, “Yes. And yet… I’ve never seen an angel get their hands bloody. They always use miracles, don’t they? I was starting to worry about her, she wasn’t getting any better, but when you brought them that night, I swear he managed to do more in a single hour than I could with a month.”

Beelzebub had known Lailah since her birth just shy of three thousand years ago. She was one of Hell’s youngest demons and had proven herself a capable healer despite her infernal nature; which was why she was permanently posted in the hospital. They themselves had never needed her services but they knew she was damn near miraculous when it came to wounds upon which miracles had no effect. And if even  _ she _ had been worried…

No, best not to think about that too hard. They had to focus on the present or they wouldn’t be able to focus at all. Blinking away visions of violet eyes, Beelzebub tried to tune back into Lailah’s rambling. They were spared the more gory details when Crowley poked his head around the door.

“She can see you now.”

Once—Beelzebub mused as they trudged after Lailah— once, they had despised Crowley. The other demon had managed to irritate them in all the wrong ways and, if they were honest, they’d been jealous. Here was a demon who spent almost none of his time in Hell; here was a demon who enjoyed himself without staining his soul; here was a demon who could love openly with someone who loved him back. 

They stiffened at that thought and ruthlessly quashed those thoughts once more.

Now was the time to focus ahead. Anything else was just a distraction.

Admittedly their adamant refusal to look upon the past was thoroughly unprepared for what lay beyond the door.

Everyone had seen Lilith differently. Not one demon could describe her the same.

And yet the gently smiling woman who lay before them seemed to be all those visions and yet was also none of them. Chocolate brown hair curled around a drawn but smiling face and a pair of golden-blue eyes stared out at them, the corners crinkling slightly as the smile warmed further. A deep-rooted instinct to bow before such obvious divinity nearly overcame Beelzebub but they beat it back with a particularly heavy stick. Something about the way Eros was sitting, the way she calmly gazed at them, spoke silent volumes.

Beelzebub heard the door click closed behind them and the noise seemed to break Eros out of her own wonder.

“It’s good to finally meet you face-to-face, Beelzebub.” Her voice sounded like the soft susurrations of grass, the gurgle of gently flowing rivers, the whisper of the sea. It was all those sounds that brought Beelzebub peace, if not total then at least temporary. 

Eros tried to sit up a little straighter and a brief flash of pain clouded her brilliant face. They didn’t realise they had moved until the slight warmth of Eros’ arm made itself known in their hand. In fact,  _ everyone _ had moved, and Eros was smiling gently again.

Aziraphale coughed discreetly; Beelzebub released the limb and backed up to give the angel room.

“My Lady… are you alright?” Asked Lailah, still a respectful distance away from the bed.

Eros looked towards her as Aziraphale gently checked over a reopened cut on her side.

“Oh, I’m perfectly fine and there’s no need for any of that formality, dear.” Eros’ smile wavered slightly as she narrowed her eyes at Lailah, “What’s your name?”

“Lailah.”

Eros’ mouth twisted a little, her brow creasing, “I don’t remember you.”

Lailah laughed a little nervously, “I was… born after the Fall. After you saved everyone from the pits.”

Eros made an odd noise at that and so began the lengthy explanation about the Hellspawn. Whilst Beelzebub spoke, Aziraphale and Crowley attended to Eros’ wings; and soon the floor of the room was coated with cracked grey-golden feathers. Eros barely noticed and kept her entire focus on Beelzebub as they stumbled through every half-formed explanation, not even flinching when Crowley accidentally brushed up against the burnt remnants of her lower left wing.

By the time they finished with a rather lame “And that’zz about it.” Eros’ eyes were shining.

“My dear, you’ve had  _ children _ ? Oh, that’s  _ wonderful! _ Could I meet them?”

Aziraphale huffed in a distinctly doctor-like way, “You’re really in no fit state to see anyone, Eros.”

Eros almost pouted which would have been funny had the split in her side not started bleeding profusely. Crowley took one look at the wound and then looked to Aziraphale for confirmation.

A minute later Crowley was shooing both Beelzebub and Lailah from the room. Before the door closed, he yelled, “We’ll tell you when she can have visitors and not a sodding second before!”

Lailah looked to Beelzebub and the Prince looked back.

“Well,” They muttered, already dreading the number of meetings  _ this _ was going to set off, “That was a Thing...”

  
  


* * *

_ 1 _ _ Technically Hell had no real need of a supply department, what with the whole ‘miracle’ thing going for them, but since miracles were rather tightly monitored most demons had turned to various supply depots throughout Hell for whatever was needed. It was also useful when something entirely too embarrassing had happened and the demon in question desperately didn’t want any hint of it reaching Lower management. Consequently, the department’s highest item in demand usually ended up being mops and attending buckets. _

_ 2 _ _ With the hurried addendum of ‘currently out of mops’ written in red marker underneath. _

_ 3 _ _ I mean, with deer legs there aren’t a lot of other ways one is able to walk. Striding and stalking are as nuanced as those legs get. _

_ 4 _ _ An affliction which was, fortunately, chronic. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My explanation for why our two boys are so good at the whole no-miracle healing thing is that, over the years, they've met various humans who've needed help and neither had permission from their respective offices to do so with miracles. So they both ended up learning various simple and practical medical procedures. Of course, usually this would just be emergency stuff before getting the injured human to a proper doctor, but Eros doesn't really run the risk of infections or shock so their rudimentary knowledge is good enough.  
> (Also, both Aziraphale and Crowley know how to stitch, but Crowley usually just lets Aziraphale do it because, despite the two of them being pretty desensitised to the sight and smell of blood (having witnessed some of the bloodiest wars of human history) Crowley prefers to avoid it whenever possible. He just happens to be rather unlucky in this chapter.)
> 
> And, I just want to say this now so there is no future confusion; not all demons and angels are 'related' to each other. Technically they all were Created by the same being but they don't treat each other like brothers and sisters. Some angels were Created in groups like the Archangels and they form a sort of familial circle but an Archangel is not, in any way, related to say, a Cherub or a Seraph. There are a few family groups in every angel rank but some angels were just Created alone, like Aziraphale. Most of these form bonds with their fellows but these are more bonds of camraderie than family. Just wanted to clear that up just in case any of you thought it was weird for demons to be having kids with each other.
> 
> Tomorrow, the chapter which, and I am not kidding, was written because I had 'Beelzebub gets a hug' jotted down in my notes. I planned for it to be part of the subsequent chapter but it kinda ran away from me and became a Thing all its own. Hope you like it :)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and, as always, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!


	20. Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Eros hugs Beelzebub and the Prince lets her.

Seventeen meetings.

_ Seventeen. _

The headache was likely permanent.

Michael was as stubborn as they remembered her to be, even in writing, and Barachiel was just plain irritating; always complaining about how Hastur was treating him, like being spun in a cage was somehow torture. Azazel had visited them six times in the past hour; practically  _ begging _ to have some time alone with the annoying Seraph.

Beelzebub had been sorely tempted but had refused, if, for no other reason, that Aziraphale would be rather miffed with them if they allowed the torture. And Eros as well, come to think of it. 

They’d received a few reports from Lailah vaguely detailing how the soon-to-be Queen of Hell was doing; which was clarified in the much more precise notes scribbled at the bottom in the resident angel’s neat script. The reports may have satisfied the Council but Beelzebub had always preferred face-to-face confirmation 1 which was why, having dismissed the guards temporarily, they were hovering outside Eros’ room. Now normally face-to-face would entail going  _ inside _ the room but all they’d done was crack the door open a few inches so they could peer inside.

Mainly because Eros had visitors already.

Perhaps twenty demons, all Hellspawn of various ages, sat around her massive bed on a variety of different seats ranging from bar stools to incredibly squashy bean bags. Eros herself was propped up with what looked like a hundred pillows with her wings still out. She looked much better: her face was less haggard and the bandages on her arms were gone, her wings looked much less ragged, and Beelzebub could see several rows of clean golden feathers coming in. Crowley sat beside her, his back facing the door, quietly preening the largest wing on her right side—a small pile of crooked and stunted feathers beside him on a black pillow. Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen.

A squirming fluffy something in Eros’ lap reared its head and Beelzebub felt their jaw drop when Eros scratched the Hellhound behind its ears. A few more heads looked up and soon her hands were full with three pups begging for attention. Her gaze was focused solely on what appeared to be Eric who was animatedly throwing his hands around as he spoke. Judging by the several dozen empty coffee cups arrayed in a neat half-circle by his feet, Beelzebub guessed he’d been going on for a while.

“-Sooo, yeah I heard from Crowley, that’s the one with the weird pronunciation not the awesome one over there,” Crowley grunted his thanks and went back to teasing out a crooked primary, “Yeah, Crowley met with Castiel a few hours before the big evacuation and  _ he _ said that something bad happened in Heaven the day before. Something big.”

A different demon out of Beelzebub’s sight snorted, “Oh, how helpful. If you haven’t noticed Eric, bad things aren’t exactly uncommon anymore. Belial’s scars still haven’t faded.”

Lailah stiffened from her place on an overstuffed armchair, “It’s not for lack of trying, Sharil. If it hadn’t been for that bitch-”

“Lailah.” Eros glanced at the younger demon who shut her mouth with a snap, “Michael is acting out. I know that does nothing to excuse her actions, but she has just lost her brother.”

Beelzebub took a deep, unnecessary breath as their vision briefly whited out. When they came to, Eros was still speaking.

“- he was one of the kindest of the Archangels.”

“I thought that was Zadkiel?” Asked Eric attempting to sip at another coffee which Lailah promptly snatched from his hand. 

Eros smiled,  “There are different types of kindness, Eric dear. Zadkiel was Created to be gentle, he’s a natural healer like our dear Lailah.” Lailah rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the tiny smile, “But Gabriel was kind because he wanted to be. He spent years with the younger angels when he didn’t have to, especially Remiel, although I doubt many remember him that way.”

Beelzebub felt like they were going to be sick. They leaned on the wall to the side of the door, supremely glad that the walls of the hospital were routinely cleaned. They were aware of Eros as she continued to talk, they could hear that name being mentioned again, the pride in Eros’ voice dampened by the grief just beneath it. It was too much.

This was too much.

They kept seeing him in the crowds when they turned too quickly. They could smell the cold damp of that alleyway in their paperwork. They could feel the still-warm flesh beneath their fingers whenever they clasped their own hands together. It wasn’t right.

They were a demon. Was this more punishment?

Had She decided they hadn’t suffered enough, was She that depraved that She’d kill off one of Her own children to prove a point?

Was this all they had to look forward to?

Eternity with this aching pain that refused to abate?

A warm hand on their shoulder made them flinch back. They looked up (when exactly had they sat down?) and saw Aziraphale hovering anxiously above them as angels were apparently wont to do. Or at least this one was.

“Beelzebub, are you alright, my dear?” They were just about to rather angrily retort that they were ‘ _ perfectly fine, you irritatingly nice Principality’ _ when they noticed the puddle they were sitting in.

Oil.

They were sitting in oil.

Oh  _ shit _ .

When they pressed their hand to their face it came away black.

Crying. They had been fucking  _ crying _ .

In  _ Hell _ .

Aziraphale dithered a little, wringing his hands slightly, before he moved for the door, “I’ll tell Eros you’re here. I’m sure she can help.”

Something akin to lightning flashed down Beelzebub’s spine and they leapt to their feet. They couldn’t show weakness, not now, not fucking ever! Aziraphale was already pushing the door open and they were so desperate to close it that they didn’t notice the room beyond was silent and had been for a while. The door was too far open, the handle too far away, and Beelzebub looked up to see Eros staring directly at them with those stunning eyes of hers. There was a sudden crackle of energy in the air and in the space of half a second several things happened all at once.

And suddenly they were standing on a beach.

The sound of the ocean was muted but they could smell it just fine and they could hear the breeze rush through the grass of the dunes to their right, making the stalks bend and sigh.

What in the fu-

“Beelzebub.”

They spun around, nearly tripping over in their haste. Stood behind them, illuminated by the pale silver of the moon, was Eros. All six of her wings were out but they were whole and utterly glorious, glowing a soft gold. She herself looked so much healthier and she was looking at them with far, far too much pity.

“W-Where-"  


“Somewhere safe.” Eros took a step forward and Beelzebub didn’t dare take a step back. She was meant to be  _ healing _ dammit! Who the fuck was bedridden but had enough strength to teleport not only themselves but an unwilling demon Prince along with them to a completely empty beach in the middle of the night?

Exactly when had the Universe stopped making sense?

Belatedly they realised Eros was standing right in front of them and before they could twist away (or react in any manner really) she pulled them into a hug. Beelzebub froze. This wasn’t right. They were a demon. Demons didn’t get this. They didn’t get hugs. 

“You do now, my dear.”

All of a sudden it didn’t matter where they were or how they’d got here. It didn’t matter that kindness and gentle things were not meant for them. It didn’t matter that Eros had spoken to them as if they had already spoken aloud. All that mattered was that they felt  _ safe _ . And that feeling wreaked utter havoc against the protective mental wall they had thrown up so hastily in the aftermath of that damned alleyway.

The grief hit them like a freight train and soon Eros was all that was holding them up, making soft shushing noises as she rubbed circles into their back. They sobbed for what seemed like hours because by the end of it their eyes were dry, and their throat was raw. Eros hadn’t budged an inch and kept up the slow circling motions as their lungs heaved, trying to dredge up more tears. None were forthcoming to help distract, however, so instead they just clung to Eros in an incredibly pathetic and yet oh-so-welcome manner.

But that ever-bubbling pit of self-hatred near their heart couldn’t let this be and Beelzebub heard themselves say, in a terribly choked up voice, “Don’t dezzerve thizz.” 

An entirely different part of them argued strenuously that they sodding well  _ did _ , but that part was relatively new 2 , so the anger closed in once more—constricting even more tightly than the grief. Eros stiffened and the circles stopped.

Good, now maybe-

“My dear, you deserve so much more.” Eros was now kneeling, so was Beelzebub for that matter and they chose not to question it, much more important things like staring into those golden eyes came first. The words took a second to register and when they did Beelzebub shook their head.

“M’ a demon.” They managed to choke out past their tongue.

Eros sighed, “And why does that exclude you from my affection?”

“… not worth it.” They really weren’t. Who the fuck had ever heard of a Prince of Hell  _ crying _ ? Over a fucking Archangel no less. Eros should be ashamed of them, they should be punished for this, it was an unforgivable transgression and-

“Don’t you dare, Beelzebub,” Eros murmured, the threat somehow managing to be soft and comforting, “Please, I am not Lucifer, you deserve respect.  _ I _ am the one who should be sorry. I should have been stronger for you. For all of you. I should have fought harder for you. I failed  _ you _ . You have done nothing but impress me, my beautiful demon.” From her lips the word  _ demon _ sounded very much like  _ angel _ and it made them shiver. They weren’t worthy of that title anymore.

Eros continued, her wings closing around them both like a feathery cradle, “You are worth every second of my attention my dear. Every single second.”

It was a testament to their own self-hatred that they managed to push themselves away from her embrace, but they weren’t able to look her in the eyes, instead focusing on the shifting shimmering tide visible through several gigantic golden primaries.

“I don’t dezzerve thizzz,” They insisted, “I’m not good. I  _ can’t _ be good, not like you.”

Eros didn’t try to pull them back into the hug, though they did feel her sigh, “And what makes you think _I’m_ good, my dear?”

That made the Prince look up. Eros seemed less radiant than before, almost like she was ashamed of her Heavenly glow. “Wh- But you’re Love. Aziraphale told me. How can you be bad?”

Eros’ smile looked painful, “That’s precisely the problem, my dear. Love isn’t pure—it never has been, not in its entirety. But you, you’re so much better than I could ever be. You’ve survived Hell, survived  _ Lucifer _ for thousands of years, and yet you were still able to love. I couldn’t do that, I hurt those I loved because I was afraid. I was so, so afraid. I didn’t want to go back to Hell or face  _ him _ ever again and perhaps I wouldn’t have even dared to go Down if I hadn’t met you.”

She let that sink in before continuing in an even softer voice, “If I hadn’t met you again… If I hadn’t seen how  _ strong _ you were even after all that has happened. After all you have suffered, merely for following the wrong person, for asking simple  _ questions _ , I don’t think I would have ever gone back. But after I saw you and Hastur and Ligur, I remembered why I loved you all so much.”

She placed a hand on their chest, “It isn’t pity, Beelzebub, it isn’t some misplaced sense of obligation or guilt for having left you all alone, although I do not deny I feel all three. I love you because you’re  _ you _ . Because you’re so different, and vibrant, and _ alive _ . You survived  _ Falling _ . You’re so much stronger than I ever could be, so don’t you  _ dare _ say that you don’t deserve my love and my admiration.”

Beelzebub’s mouth moved but it took a while for anything to come out, and when it did they immediately wished it hadn’t.

“But… I’ve sinned. Over and over and over again.”

Eros tilted their head up by their chin and her smile was achingly soft, “Did you? Or were you  _ ordered _ to? If you hadn’t done those things, would you be dead?” Her other hand rested against their cheek, “Did  _ you _ decide to do those things? Did  _ you _ want to do them?”

She let that sink in as well but, when it was obvious no answer was forthcoming, she continued, “You aren’t the angel I remember. You aren’t Remiel anymore. But that doesn’t make you  _ wrong _ . You’ve just  _ changed _ . You’re a different person now than you were thousands of years ago. That is completely natural and I love you for it.” This time she did pull them back into the hug; Beelzebub found themselves unable to resist.

They’d been without love for so long it almost felt unreal when Eros closed her glorious wings around them both. It felt strange but also almost familiar like they’d felt this kind of comfort before and-

_ “Remiel, stop squirming! I can’t get comfortable!” _

Their eyes shot open. That was- no it couldn’t have been…

“Erozz…”

“Yes, dear?”

“You…” They licked their suddenly dry lips and swallowed, “You zzaid you knew me Before.”

“I did, yes. Knew you quite well as a matter of fact.”

They nodded, taking in deep unnecessary lungfuls of clean sea air, “Zzo, could you help me remember?”

Eros hummed thoughtfully as she settled more comfortably on the soft dry sand. Beelzebub barely noticed when they were drawn into her lap like a child, they were far too comfortable for that, instead they focused on the soft sigh of the grass and the whisper of the waves to their left. They liked this but they couldn’t relax fully.

Not yet. Maybe not ever, and certainly not right now, but they were more relaxed than they had been in millennia.

Now resettled, Eros resumed her gentle circling strokes of Beelzebub’s back. They noticed she took care to avoid the space between their shoulder blades where their wings had once rested but they didn’t mention it. Eros took her time pondering the question and Beelzebub had nearly drifted off to sleep by the time she got around to answering.

“I suppose I could, but I can’t promise you that it’ll help. You might not like what you see.”

Beelzebub shook their head, banishing the sleepy feeling with a thought, “Don’t care. I… I need to remember; I need to know…”

“If it would have worked? With him?” Her complete and utter understanding was almost too much, but Beelzebub pushed through and nodded.

“Very well, but please remember you can stop it any time you wish. You are in control here, not I, and if it ever gets too much just come back to me. I’ll wait here as long as you need. Alright?”

They nodded, wondering vaguely what in the fuck they thought they were doing, but by this point they didn’t much care. They  _ needed _ to know exactly what they had lost. They needed that knowledge like humans needed air and they had been suffocating for far too long already.

“Ready?” Eros hadn’t moved except to place her hand underneath Beelzebub’s head, uncaring for the filth clinging to every strand of their black hair as her fingers threaded through it.

Beelzebub blinked once and nodded. They closed their eyes, focusing on the soft crash of the surf, and a steady enveloping warmth that slowly spread from Eros’ fingers. Then-

_ “Come on, Remiel! They’re waiting for us!” _

***

She hummed as she waited, rocking gently back and forth. Almost absentmindedly she reached up to stroke the small stumps of horn poking out just beneath her hairline. Aziraphale had apologised profusely when he had told her they couldn’t be removed, at least not safely given how unpredictably her body was given to react 3 but they really didn’t bother her. It felt odd, true, but so did her still-mutilated lower left wing back in reality and she suspected that surreal feeling would probably never leave.

Suddenly she wished Abyss were here. Her oldest Brother had never failed to make things clearer when she had been confused, and he would certainly know what to do about this god-awful murderer. Even thinking about it, about all those children so callously slaughtered, made her blood boil. Reflexively she tightened her grip on the petite body in her arms.

Beelzebub hadn’t deserved this, and she’d be damned herself before she let another child, Fallen or otherwise, succumb to this monster.

The Prince whimpered slightly in her embrace and she relented, gently stroking their hair from their unmarked face. Softly she began to sing. It was a melody she had learned from Crowley as he had worked his way through her constantly moulting wings and despite him never having sung the lyrics, she enjoyed the tune. Now she added her own music to it and the tune swelled until it rivalled the greatest melodies the world had ever produced.

Such a pity that mortal ears would have bled if they had heard it.

The tide grew ever closer, but Eros paid it no mind. It would never reach them.

Beelzebub groaned, turning over in her arms. Gently she shifted to accommodate the movement. Her singing grew quieter as she concentrated on the small demon. Flashes of pain and grief nearly overwhelmed her, but she could sense faint relief and even the tiniest bit of happiness under it all, so she let them be. She had promised not to interfere, and she wouldn’t.

Unless it became unavoidable.

Looking down at their small form conjured images of Hope. Her littlest Sister had been just about Beelzebub’s size, if not slightly taller, but where Beelzebub had a habitual frown and a mop of black hair, her Sister had almost never stopped smiling under her free-flowing silver. In her mind’s eye she imagined that shoulder-length tide crowned with clumps of baby’s breath and snowdrops; which was silly of course, Hope had never worn any flowers, at least she’d never seen her wear any. She felt another pang of loss, wishing fruitlessly that the visions would become reality, and she could see Hope again.

Wishing was always fruitless, even beings who could perform miracles wished. Beelzebub had probably wished very hard; it hadn’t made much of a difference. Some things couldn’t be helped by miracles. Her own body was a testament to that. Without Aziraphale and Crowley she feared that this body would not have survived her re-inhabitation, and it made her shudder to think what could have happened had her spirit been unanchored with her Grace still so weakened. She might never have found another receptive body, might have spent eternity wandering and wondering in the void. Calling out for her Siblings, her children, her Aziraphale, her dear Raphael.

It would have been to no avail.

She might have just ceased being altogether.

A murmur from her lap drew her from that ocean of melancholy. Beelzebub looked up at them with shining, watery eyes. They said nothing.

Eros gently lifted them up into a more relaxing upright position and waited.

After a long time of waiting she sighed, “Did it work?”

After a moment’s pause the far-away look in those eyes faded. They nodded.

“Alright,” Eros glanced around the beach, she would have enough power for this, she was sure, but Beelzebub needed to make the decision. This was all for them, “We could go somewhere else, my dear.”

That caught the demon’s attention and they glanced up from staring at the sand.

Eros continued, “I’ll take you somewhere, anywhere you want to go.”

After a lengthy pause Eros was starting to worry that she’d perhaps gone too fast. That look in Beelzebub’s eyes was foreign, and it felt dangerous. She didn’t want to accidentally cause a panic attack or something worse. Maybe-

“Zzugar.”

Eros blinked, “Pardon?”

Beelzebub wriggled a little, looking anywhere and everywhere but her, “Zzugar. Pazztriezz. Zzzomething  _ zzweet _ .”

Eros smiled, “I believe that can be arranged, my dear.”

***

Eros watched with mild amusement as Beelzebub dipped yet another chouquette in a small bowl of warm chocolate and proceeded to almost inhale it.

“It won’t go anywhere, dear. I’m certainly not going to steal it.” She wasn’t at all up for trying any sort of food, even if it wasn’t real. Maybe later. Aziraphale had certainly made it sound tempting, all those meats and vegetables and spices, and sugar,  _ lots _ of sugar. Beelzebub had obviously discovered the joys of eating a long time previously and they seemed to know what to do with all the little puffy pastries she conjured up for them. And judging by the pleased noises Beelzebub had been making, she hadn’t done a bad job with the flavour either. 

Beelzebub glared half-heartedly as they licked their fingers clean of residual chocolate and sugar, “Might not zzteal it, but we’re going to have to go back  _ zzome _ time. I’m zztill a Prince of Hell and there’zzz zztill a crizizz.”

It was the longest sentence she’d got out of them yet and she was unable to hide her elation as she gazed through the pastry café’s window onto the empty street beyond.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry, dear, we can stay as long as you like.”

Beelzebub paused; a profiterole laden with chocolate halfway to their mouth. They narrowed their eyes suspiciously, “How’zz that pozzzible?”

Eros fought desperately to hide the blush that painted her cheeks a faint pink, but she lost the battle, “Well… I err…” She poked at a plate of croissants liberally coated in sugar and syrup and considered trying one if only to gum up her mouth. But that would defeat the entire purpose of this venture. Beelzebub deserved the truth and Eros needed to prove her trustworthiness.

“I may have… formed a temporary dimension and stopped the normal advancement of time…” Spoken aloud, it sounded rather… over the top.

Beelzebub’s dropped jaw was almost comical. They opened their mouth a few times, but words seemed to fail them. By the time they did speak the profiterole was long abandoned on the sugary plate.

“You  _ what ?” _

Eros shrugged, “I did it before. Although Eden was a little easier to form.”

Beelzebub looked like they were in serious danger of dislocating their jaw, “ **_What_ ** _?” _

“Erm… when I spoke to Aziraphale for the first time I… Well, now that I think about it, it wasn’t really another dimension, more like a dream I suppose. Making this,” She gestured vaguely to indicate the quaint little café, “Is rather new, but it is similar enough, so it really wasn’t too difficult-”

Beelzebub cut her off with a raised eyebrow, “You  _ made _ thizz?”

“Yes.”

“ _ All _ of it?”

Eros nodded, “Mostly. The café is mainly you; you had a lot of good memories focused on it.”

Beelzebub took a harder look around the café, “I  _ thought _ it looked familiar.”

Eros smiled, “You remembered it fondly, I hope I recreated it ‘true to life’, as it were.”

Beelzebub’s nearly happy grin allayed Eros’ fears of somehow getting the small pastry café wrong. That grin lasted all of a minute before it shrunk in on itself and was replaced with a grimace. 

Oh dear.

“Beelzebub? Dear, are you- “

“Thizz wazz one of the firzzt placezz where we met in zzecret.” Beelzebub murmured as they glanced around the café, “Even then we convinced ourzzelvezz it wazz juzzzt for work, I’m not zzzure if either of uzz ever realizzzed what a zztupid lie that wazz…”

For a moment, just the barest moment, Eros heard a voice she had not heard for thousands of years. He sounded so much more  _ cynical _ and suspicious than before, but she could still hear that unmistakeable fondness in his tone, that love she remembered so vividly. Then he was gone, forever.

“My dear-”

“No. Don’t. Pleazze?” Beelzebub looked away, glancing out at the empty street now illuminated by the streetlights. When had they decided night had to fall?

“Can we talk about zzomething elzze?”

Eros nodded, “You can ask me something, anything, if you like. I’ll answer as best I can.”

Beelzebub nodded and went back to inhaling pastries. They’d consumed maybe half a café’s worth of sugary treats before asking, “What were you and the Hellzzpawn talking about?”

Eros brightened considerably, “Oh nothing too terribly important. They were just catching me up on all the happenings on Earth. What they knew, anyway. I was also treated to a rather extensive summary on the relevant happenings in Hell itself. Hence the puppies.”

Beelzebub’s raised eyebrows suggested, at the least, mild befuddlement. Eros hastened to explain and provide a much-needed distraction before any idle thought decided to turn toxic, “They told me about your dear Hellhounds and since I was so curious, little Shakiri borrowed some pups from a new-born litter. They’re the most adorable little things.”

Beelzebub’s eyebrows looked like they were going to try and burrow into their hairline, “Hellhoundzz aren’t  _ adorable _ . They’re the mozzt viciouzz bloody thingzzz we’ve got down there that haven’t Fallen.”

Eros giggled, “They really aren’t. I have never met cuter things in all my long existence. Unless I discount Eric, of course.”

At that Beelzebub actually laughed. Weakly, true, but still there.

“Eric izzn’t cute, he’zzz irritating.” They didn’t really sound like they meant it, but Eros pretended to be offended on Eric’s behalf.

“He  _ is _ cute. Especially after all that coffee. I’ve never heard anyone talk so  _ fast _ .” As she delved deeper into the story of Eric and his frankly ridiculous caffeine consumption 4 and the fountain of amusing stories that had then spouted 5 she noticed Beelzebub start to take interest. They laughed more easily and went back to nibbling on the plethora of overtly sugary snacks, occasionally adding bits to a story Eric had skimmed over or flushing a pale pink when Eric’s stories went a little  _ too _ in depth. They might have stayed there for hours, chatting over the gradually diminishing pile of confectionary but eventually Eros felt that tell-tale pull in her chest.

It was just the beginnings of a warning.

_ Time to go _ . 

Her displeasure must have shown on her face because Beelzebub sighed.

“We have to go back, don’t we?”

Eros nodded, “I’m afraid so. I’d hardly want to ruin all of Aziraphale and Crowley’s hard work by overextending myself.” She slid from the chair and held out her hand. Beelzebub took it and stood as well, glancing wistfully at the remaining pastries.

“They weren’t real, were they?” They asked, licking their fingers one final time.

“No. Aziraphale will be annoyed enough with me as it is, no need to make it worse by trying to manifest anything real. I hope they tasted good, though.”

Eros turned from the table, preparing to sever the connection, when-

“Why?”

She opened her eyes, “Why what, dear?”

Beelzebub glanced back at the table and then back to her, “Why do you care? Why rizzk your own zzafety juzzt for me?”

Eros sighed, and smiled as she embraced the small demon once more. It took a moment for Beelzebub to return the gesture but when they did their grip rivalled that of a titanium vice. Eros gently carded her fingers through their hair and they shuddered. 

“I have always cared, my dear. Always. I will never stop. And you’re perfect, always have been, always will be. Please remember that.”

She held on a moment longer before leaning back and planting a soft kiss on their forehead.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

Eros snapped her fingers and the restaurant obliterated itself just as she and Beelzebub disappeared, and time restarted.

***

Beelzebub came to and found themselves still standing. In fact, they hadn’t moved and neither had Eros who was smiling pleasantly, if a little wearily, from her propped-up position on the black-silk bed. The twenty or so Hellspawn were blinking owlishly, glancing around like they’d  _ just  _ missed something important. Beelzebub patted their cheek and was only faintly surprised when their hand came away clean of any oil. Eros looked rather pleased with herself.

Aziraphale blinked beside them and then… well not scowled. Frowned? He didn’t look at all pleased, but when he glanced over at Beelzebub and took in their small smile and notably unstained face he relented, at least slightly, and all he said was, “Alright dears, Lilith needs her rest.”

Crowley clarified for him, “He means fuck off, kids. Visiting hours are over.”

As the kids filed out 8 , still confused as to why they were being rather politely shooed from the room by an overtly fussy angel, Beelzebub looked to Eros. She still hadn’t moved but her smile was more reassuring than anything she could have said. With a curt nod they turned back to the corridor and allowed themselves to be gently shoved out. They’d got what they needed.

No one noticed the single pink carnation blossom bloom in Eros’ hair before falling into the tangled nest of blankets, but it was there, all the same.

  
  


* * *

_ 1 _ _ The entire ordeal with the M25  _ **_could_ ** _ have been discussed over a phone, radio, or other handy electrical appliance with a speaker but it had been such an outlandish idea from Crowley—which was saying something—that they’d had to meet him. Dagon had also wanted to test out the new projector that had been installed just that week. After the presentation it had, of course, exploded. _

_ 2 _ _ As in hadn’t-existed-until-roughly-two-hours-ago kind of new. _

_ 3 _ _ Crowley had taken great pleasure in complaining about the many times he’d had to traipse down to the supply depot for fresh bandages, much to her amusement. _

_ 4 _ _ He had spent at least fifteen minutes explaining caffeine to her but since he had been drinking it in considerable quantities beforehand all she really got was that it was some sort of stimulant that made most humans function properly. _

_ 5 _ _ Helped along by the not inconsiderable coterie of other Hellspawn that had trailed after him when he had tracked Aziraphale down for that promised coffee _ _ 6 _ _. _

_ 6 _ _ A coffee the angel had soundly refused on the grounds of his corporations’ health _ _ 7 _ _.  _

_ 7 _ _ “I mean,  _ **_really_ ** _ , my dear. Does  _ **_everything_ ** _ have to be quite so sugary?” _

_ 8 _ _ Shakiri hurriedly scooping up the Hellhound pups; all of whom were absolutely furious at being manhandled away from Eros. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! A chapter of wholesome fluff! How did that get in here?  
> This chapter was most definitely not meant to be this long. It _was_ meant to be just a short paragraph or two after a chapter where Eros gets to interact more with the demon kids but then I started writing and writing, and writing some more and boom, we've got a little bit of the conversation the kids were meant to have with Eros and a whole heck of a lot of Beelzebub being hugged and told they're worthy of affection. This certainly hasn't completely helped Beelzebub (I mean six thousand years of abuse topped with the violent death of a loved one hardly goes away with just the one conversation) but its a start.
> 
> Beelzebub will be going through more trauma, along with practically everyone else, but I PROMISE there is a happy ending full of fluffiness and comfort. So it will be worth it!
> 
> Tomorrow, one of Lucifer's secrets is revealed and we find out what the Metatron's been up to.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, as always comments and kudos are very welcome and appreciated :)


	21. The King is Dead, Long Live the Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eros gets an unexpected promotion and the Metatron realises, briefly, that he may have made a mistake.

“Are you sure we can’t keep her here any longer?” Aziraphale asked, fussing with his bowtie for what felt like the tenth time in as many minutes.

Crowley sighed, “The Council was  _ very _ clear, angel. They want to see her  _ now _ .”

Aziraphale wrung his hands for the fifth time in as many minutes and Crowley considered (briefly) giving the angel something else to occupy his hands with, but decided against it. He would _ not  _ risk the mood being spoiled by some demonic schmuck looking for Lilith’s personal attendees 1 . 

The small group of demons Lailah had escorted in had mostly consisted of ‘courtiers’: Lucifer’s old coterie of personal servants who had been the usual go-between for the Devil and the rest of Hell. There wasn’t going to be an official crowning, considering they were all pressed for time already, but it had apparently been decided that Lilith needed to give a good first impression to the hordes of Hell that eagerly awaited a new ruler.

Eros herself had been less than pleased with the decision but had acceded on the grounds that it would be  _ discussed _ after the negotiations with Upstairs. Crowley thought it would be less  _ discussion _ and more  _ listen-here-you-presumptuous-twats,  _ but they’d see.

Aziraphale fidgeted again as they waited outside Eros’ room. Crowley grabbed his hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. It was such a relief to see his angel back in his properly pompous and severely out of date clothes and he could see Aziraphale was pleased with the development as well. When the notice of Eros’ imminent meeting with the Council had been delivered Aziraphale had been offered a much more Hellish garb of a coal black jacket, deep grey trousers, and cobalt silk shirt.

He had, naturally, refused. If Crowley couldn’t convince him to update his clothing style 2 then Hell had no chance 3 .

Crowley himself had merely taken a new red shirt 4 and several extra pairs of sunglasses when he had been asked what he would wear to the meeting, but he had refused to show anything more demonic than his eyes. Scales looked plenty impressive, but they were too damn itchy next to relatively smooth human skin.

Aziraphale twitched again, “If she hadn’t abused her powers quite so strongly with Beelzebub, not that the poor dear didn’t  _ need _ it of course, she would be much further along. If they could have just waited a day or two…”

Crowley grimaced, “Patience isn’t exactly plentiful down here, angel. I’m surprised they waited as long as they did.”

He honestly was shocked at the restraint the Council had shown but then again Eros wasn’t knocking politely at Death’s door any longer. And it had taken a shit ton of work to pull  _ that _ miracle off.

Her horns, or what remained of them, had been impossible to remove with what little human medical knowledge Aziraphale had possessed and Lailah had refused to give Eros so much as a scratch, so they had simply removed as much offending splintered bone as they could before smoothing the rest into gently protruding nubs just under her hairline. Eros hadn’t seemed too terribly bothered despite the pain it had surely caused and had waved off any concern. The next big thing had been her wings, all but one of which seemed well on their way to their former glory. The sixth wing was still twisted and malformed but nothing Aziraphale had done seemed to be able to coax it to grow properly. So, it remained a mutilated half-wing, but it at least had feathers again. 

It was a far cry from what Aziraphale’s healing had meant to do but neither he nor Crowley were willing to argue with unexpectedly positive results. The one thing that still concerned them both was the continuously opening wound on her right side. It was smaller, around half the size of what it had been the first time Aziraphale had stitched it closed, but it was still healing far too slowly for either of their liking. When Aziraphale had asked about it, Eros had paled and muttered something about Lucifer liking to experiment with different metals. The topic had been abruptly switched and Aziraphale had instead focused on stitching it closed once more as Crowley distracted Eros with another discussion on botany. 

The stitches themselves had received the most toxic glower Crowley possessed, reserved only for his worst-behaved plants, and the threads had decided it was in their best interest to hold Eros’ skin together. It would rather ruin any sort of commanding effect if Eros was having to be stitched up every five minutes with blood seeping down her side.

Aziraphale was still fidgeting when Lailah poked her head around the door, grinning like a madwoman.

“May I present,” She began dramatically before swinging the door open, “The new Queen of Hell!”

Crowley had become intimately familiar with Eros over the past few days but even that did not prepare him for her entrance.

She stepped out like a shadow. Each movement smooth and languid, elegance incarnate. A rippling sleeveless black dress encased her body like ink, it almost seemed to suck in the light. A red sash encircled her waist pinned in place by a silver brooch in the shape of a Lillum rune of power. She was wearing heels, to Crowley’s surprise, and it looked as though she had been born to wear them. Her face had no makeup but the golden glitter of Grace framing her eyes made it quite unnecessary. Her eyes were startlingly bright, and her flowerless hair was pulled back, giving no frame to her slightly plump face and startlingly pink lips. 

Crowley realised he was staring but found himself unable to stop. That is, until Eros smiled. It was slightly sheepish and as Lailah disappeared into the bedroom again her cool façade crumbled, and she looked just about ready to go back and lie down again. Aziraphale hurried forward, hovering next to her, obviously unsure whether she wanted to be touched or not. Eros made the decision for him and nearly collapsed into his arms. Crowley came forward, unsure himself what to do. Aziraphale was already fussing.

“Any light-headedness, my dear? Nausea? Are the stitches coming undone?”

Eros shook her head, took a few deep breaths, and straightened again, “No, nothing like that, dear. Simply needed a second to catch my breath, those… what did you call them?”

“Courtiers.” Crowley supplied.

“Yes, they’re rather skittish. Much different to how I remembered them from Before, it was almost like they expected me to- to  _ hit  _ them. One nearly fainted when I said the dress was too big and another one accidentally pulled my hair and the  _ look _ he gave me…”

She shivered, “It was so  _ eerie _ .”

Crowley nodded, “Comes with the position, I think. Anyone who wasn’t enough of a sycophant didn’t tend to last long.”

Eros’ pained expression wasn’t long-lived either as Lailah came bursting back through the door. All of a sudden, the slight grimace faded from her face and Eros stood, waiting for the rest of the coterie with a patient smile as they filed out of the room. As they started moving down the corridor Crowley and Aziraphale found themselves next to Eros as they marched. This close Crowley could see the tension in her shoulders and how she wobbled slightly on the heels as she strode with feigned confidence down the grey halls of the hospital. Lailah led the procession and even she cast worried glances back at the seemingly flawless figure Eros cut.

What was it the humans said again?

Fake it till you make it.

Crowley wondered exactly where the making began, and the faking ended.

It only got worse when they left the hospital. 

Demons of every size and rank lined the corridor and when the silence wasn’t deafening it was peppered with whispers from every direction.

“—she’s _ returned! _ —“

“—it’s true—“

“—she’ll save us—“

“—won’t abandon us—“

“—she’ll stop the monster—“

“—save us—“

“—save us—“

“— **_save us_ ** —“

Crowley could feel each breath Eros took and he didn’t need to look to know she was still smiling. He knew human adults did this around kids, hell even  _ he’d  _ done it to little Warlock, putting on a brave face so he didn’t get scared. Was that what she was doing?

Putting on a brave face?

They were maybe halfway there when the procession stopped. It took a second for Crowley to realise why but when he did his blood ran cold.

A demon with a tiny bat clinging to their dirty blond hair had fallen from their position by the wall, a genuine accident or pushed he couldn’t tell. The demon attempted to scrabble away before-

“Stop.” Eros’ voice was commanding, and the hallway fell deathly quiet. Several demons tried to lean forward, eager to see their new Queen in action. Crowley just felt a bit sick.

Eros stepped forward and, to the astonishment of every being in attendance—excepting Crowley, Lailah, and Aziraphale of course—she knelt and helped the stunned demon to their feet. The demon was trembling now, but Eros merely turned his hands over and frowned when she saw the palms bleeding slightly from the fall. Gently, she ran a finger down each palm and the small abrasions healed over. After a moment’s pause, she let go and smiled, letting the extremely confused demon run back to his place. Before she continued Crowley watched her give a glare that put his own to shame to a demon standing nearby the one currently shaking like a leaf. The short demon grew pale and the procession continued. If anything, it only made the whispering louder but when Crowley glanced at Eros’ face, her smile no longer seemed strained.

When they reached the doors leading to the Council Chamber Lailah abruptly shooed them inside whilst the courtiers hurried off. The Chamber looked as grim as before except this time the semicircle of thrones had one unoccupied throne in its centre carved out of black stone. On either side of the throne sat the Princes who were all watching Eros with something approaching awe. All except Beelzebub who looked at her with what could only have been described as fondness.

Asmodeus broke the silence, “All rise for the Queen.”

Crowley watched, trying to hide his amusement, as all seven Princes hurriedly scrambled to their feet in a show of obedience and servility 5 . Eros silently made her way to the throne whilst he and Aziraphale moved over to where Ligur and Hastur stood half in shadow.

Hastur was so focused on watching Eros seat herself on the throne that he nearly jumped a foot in the air when a hand patted him on the shoulder.

“Where’s Barachiel?” Crowley whispered. 

The Duke grinned, “Busy puking his guts out.”

Ligur rolled his eyes as they flashed with amused blue, “Again.”

Crowley nodded, “Ah, enjoyed yourself, have you?”

Hastur glanced to Eros again, “Better than you. She doing okay?”

“As well as can be expected. She went through the ringer. More than once.”

Hastur nodded, “I heard. Was it bad?”

Crowley grimaced, that skull-like face swimming in his vision again, he blinked a few times to erase it. “Worse.”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand in silent warning and Crowley shut up. 

Eros clasped her hands together and glanced between the expectant Princes before homing in on Beelzebub, “As I have been out of the loop for so long could you please catch me up on what we know?”

If she had asked any of the other Princes, they would have gaped at her uncomprehendingly for at least five minutes. As it was, Beelzebub took her politeness in stride, “The murderzz began shortly after the Apocalypzze wazz averted, now nearly two monthzzz ago,” A few of the Princes shot hooded glares Crowley’s way but he pretended not to notice, “At firzzt it wazz difficult to tell if thezzze agentzz had really been killed or had zzimply attempted to ezzcape,” Again Crowley was given filthy looks and again he decided to irritate the Princes with his nonchalance, “ But after the fifth dizzappearance we zzzent zzeveral demonzz to invezztigate. The bodiezz were found zzzoon after.”

Eros’ hands clenched but only Crowley seemed to notice, “Was the cause determined?”

“Azz far azz we could tell they were unharmed. We had our bezzt torturerzzz examine the bodiezz and they couldn’t find a trace of any zzort of phyzzical damage other than a few pozzt-mortem bruizzez from where the bodiezz fell. There were no tracezz of poizzon nor wazzz there any indication of anything holy either on their perzzon or in their houzezz.” Beelzebub buzzed, clearly irritated at the complete lack of any explanation.

Asmodeus, apparently more adaptable than the rest of the Council, decided to join in, “We did, of course, suspect the Opposition, my Lady. But as the murders increased in frequency and boldness on both of our sides, we had to concede that it was unlikely to be their doing.”

Eros hummed thoughtfully, “Has Michael confirmed this?”

At this point Belphegor chuckled, the sound was disgusting but Eros didn’t appear to notice, “Only after she calmed down. First communication we got was in capital letters. Neat capital letters. Didn’t leave much to the imagination, either.”

Eros smiled, “Yes, I imagine communicating with Hell was rather low on her list of priorities. And I remember her temper quite well. But back to the topic at hand, how many have we lost?”

Beelzebub sighed, “We believed the number to be roughly forty in total, but after the recall the final count wazz fifty-six. Fifty-two variouzz lower ranking demonzzz, three Lordzz, Abraxizzz, Xenophon, and Agarezzz, and Duke Abaddon. From our communicationzz with Heaven we know their total izz the zzame, excepting…” Their voice faltered and Asmodeus jumped in.

“Excepting the death of the Archangel Gabriel, my Lady. We suspect that one of us may have been targeted next had the Council not ordered the recall.”

“So, this murderer killed in pairs?” Eros clarified. 

Asmodeus nodded, silver hair glinting in the wan light of the chamber, “That is what we believe, my Lady. And thus far we have received no news from any of our human contacts. From what we can tell, whatever this beast is, it vanished when both sides retreated.”

Eros’ shoulders tensed slightly but she kept her expression neutral as she asked, “And what was Lucifer’s reaction when this crisis began?”

The Council shifted uncomfortably. Beelzebub recovered first, “We zzent a runner down to inform him. We received no reply other than the rather _ dizztinct _ imprezzzion that he wazz lezzz than pleazzed. The mezzzenger did not return.”

Eros did not seem very surprised at that, not that any hateful act of Lucifer’s seemed to surprise her. That awful corpse swam in front of Crowley’s eyes again and he suppressed a shiver.

By the time he was able to banish those particularly vile images from his retinas again, the Council was in deep discussion over who would attend the meeting with Heaven.

Eros was adamant about attending 6 and the Council eventually conceded, deciding to rely on the extensive array of Dukes to keep Hell from descending into madness whilst they were away 7 . As they were discussing this Beelzebub decided to speak up again.

“Izz it pozzible that Heaven will bring one of your zziblingzzz along with them?”

The discussion halted and Eros frowned, “It’s possible, but I haven’t felt the presence of my Siblings for aeons. Not even since I awoke properly. If they are in Heaven, they are concealing themselves far too well for me to sense them.”

Beelzebub grimaced, “Could it be becauzzze you’re in Hell? It might be interfering with your zzenzezz.”

“Possibly,” Eros conceded, completely oblivious to the slack-jawed Princes surrounding her. It was rather obvious Beelzebub had not mentioned any siblings and equally as obvious that the idea of such a powerful being with possible equals flying about in the Opposition’s camp was not an idea that sat comfortably with them.

“But even so, if they did bring along one of my Sisters or Brothers, I’m sure I could reason with them.” She grimaced, “Perhaps not Wrath, Justice might be hard to sway as well, and we might as well give up if they somehow convince Abyss to join them. But I doubt they even know my Siblings exist, especially since Aziraphale didn’t recognise me either, so the chances of them being there are rather small.”

The Council was busy absorbing this latest revelation when the Chamber doors swung open with a muffled clang and Dagon raced through, nearly tripping over her own heels, clutching what looked like dirty wads of paper. She stumbled to a halt just short of smashing into the table and lifted a wad into view.

“My Lords!” She was out of breath and Crowley could see her scales shining with sweat, “Something you n-need to see! Found it in Lucifer’s private r-residence!”

She slammed the notes down in front of Beelzebub and then proceeded to gulp in air like a fish would with water. Beelzebub hefted up the wad in one hand and began sifting through it, their eyes growing wider with each passing slip. After they’d read about ten, they looked back up at Dagon.

“Are thezze real?” 

Dagon nodded, still too winded to say anything, and Beelzebub paled. Wordlessly they handed the stack to Eros who slid the first note from the pile and read it aloud.

“ _ ’Tempt the High Priest called Varias into lust with the young girl called Serah at the temple of Aphrodite on the third night of the summer solstice. From there the empire will crumble. Signed, Erebus’ _ ,” Eros narrowed her eyes and read the next slip, “ _ ’Tell the demon known as Crawley to vacate Pompei within the next three hours, Vesuvius will erupt shortly. Signed, Erebus’ _ .”

She continued to read out notes and it was like Crowley was listening to his life through a narrator. There was the order to show Jesus the kingdoms of the world, there the order to tempt a nun into theft, there the order to sabotage a ship bound for the Caribbean. The Council had fallen deathly silent as Eros continued to read out the notes, all signed  _ Erebus _ .

Finally, she stopped and looked at Dagon with wide eyes, “What is this?”

Dagon gulped audibly but the waver in her voice was well-concealed, “We found it hidden among Lucifer’s personal affects, my Lady. The box was booby-trapped, Lailah is treating two demons for burns as we speak.”

Asmodeus growled, his cat’s eyes glowing with fury, “It’s instructions. This ‘Erebus’ was giving Lucifer fucking  _ instructions _ !”

Dagon withdrew a single half-charred note from her pocket and handed it to Eros, “This one is the most recent from what we can tell, my Lady. We think the trap was meant to destroy the rest of the notes, but we were able to put the fire out before it could properly catch.”

Eros unfolded the note and read aloud, “ _ ’Situation is escala-, -nemy on the move. Meet at- ‘ _ .” Her eyes narrowed as she looked between the Princes, “Erebus called for a meeting.”

Crowley nearly cursed aloud, and Eros apparently shared his sentiments as she stood, still clenching the note. She looked to Beelzebub.

“Call Heaven and tell them we’ll meet immediately. Have Barachiel prepared to leave.”

***

The Metatron coughed in the heat of the desert. Normally he despised wearing a corporation—they were so unseemly and physical sensations were uncomfortable at the best of times—but in this instance, it was warranted.

Babylon had been razed by God millennia ago and as such had also been  _ lost _ for countless centuries. No angel or demon had dared stick around during the hailstorm of brimstone and lightning and so its exact location had been gladly forgotten. Of course, after it’s destruction no being from either side had seen any reason to find it again, so it had remained lost, both from celestial and mortal eyes, for most of human history. Even the Metatron had no idea where it was except for a general sense of ancient wards somewhere in the Middle East, far from any human settlements, which was why he was currently trudging through the desert, seemingly without any aim.

To a human he would have looked desperate, possibly mad, but if an angel had happened across him dressed as he was in pure white robes, they would have recognised his journey for what it was.

A pilgrimage.

And not a human one with all their stupid rituals and false ideas of repentance, this one  _ worked _ .

To find Babylon he first had to sense for the ancient wards God had cast so many centuries ago to prevent humans from re-entering. He had passed through two such wards in the past hour and now the pulse of ancient energy was a definite throb instead of an itch. He was heading in the right direction. He could have flown but God had been a tricky sort back then and he suspected he would lose his way if he allowed his single set of off-white wings to unfold and carry him away from the oppressive heat.

No, best to get there slowly rather than not at all.

Stretching out his senses once more—not too strongly lest Heaven take note—he fumbled for that pulsing point. Turning slightly to face it, he took another step-

And crashed through the final ward. The pulse became a tempo, throbbing beneath his corporeal feet and shivering up his neck. The power was ancient, it felt like warm fire pulsing through his human-like veins and the air was suddenly rich with power and absent of any irritating dust. What had once been empty desert before him suddenly revealed the ravaged beauty of Babylon, half-buried beneath mounds of choking sand. And beyond it all, raised accusingly into the sky like a broken marble finger, stood the Tower of Babel.

The Metatron felt himself grin. His prize now within his sights, he allowed himself to move more swiftly, relying on the powerful third ward to contain his own signature from any unwelcome Heavenly or Hellish eyes. Ruins passed him by in a blur and soon the Tower stood before him in all its ancient and toppled glory. From what he could see the top had been completely blasted away, baring its delicate inner skeleton to the elements, but it’s foundations still stood, stretching an impressive kilometre into the sky. If they’d been left to their own devices the Babylonians could have made good headway into the troposphere, although the ozone layer would have killed them before they made it into the stratosphere. Either way they wouldn’t have been able to reach Heaven—it being on a different plane of existence and all—but God had tended to take symbolic gestures a little too literally sometimes.

Pity. He had liked the gardens here.

Inhaling deeply, nearly drunk on the sheer power the ancient building emanated, the Metatron almost missed the tell-tale pulse of darkness to his left. It was like an ink stain, spreading out over plain parchment, an unwelcome blot on a perfectly divine page.

“Lucifer.” He said the name like a curse and when he turned to face the source of that rotting energy, he saw the same distaste reflected in those burning eyes held in that pale, hateful face.

“Metatron.” The Devil responded in kind, somehow sounding even more disgusted, practically spitting the name into the sand.

The Metatron glowered, “What in the name of all that is good are  _ you _ doing here?”

“Funny,” Lucifer grimaced, “I was about to ask you the same question. Shouldn’t you be in Heaven? Crying over my dead brother with the rest of the mewling Host and begging Her for help?”

The Metatron swelled indignantly, “Just because  _ I _ can hear Her does not mean I must beg Her for  _ anything _ ! I believe in Her Plan and I trust that Gabriel’s death has served Her some purpose.”

_ Awfully pious of you, Metatron, and here I thought those of Heaven didn’t lie? _

The Metatron flinched. The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once and it took him a moment to realise it was in his own head. Judging from the empty surprise flickering across Lucifer’s face he had heard it too.

_ Surprised? I did call you here, Metatron, did you not expect me to show up? _

The Metatron gaped, “Erebus? You’re here?”

He spun on his heel, searching in vain for any hint of movement amongst the bleached bones of Babylon, but saw nothing. He was alone with Lucifer. The Devil, who, come to think of it, didn’t look as confused about being spoken to by Erebus as he should have been.

_ I called you  _ **_both_ ** _ here. _

The Metatron strained his eyes as he searched among the sandy graves, his more celestial senses nigh useless given the proximity of the Tower. He could have sworn he had seen movement.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Erebus? Why the fuck is  **_he_ ** here?” Lucifer shouted, glancing around almost as fervently as the Metatron himself.

_ For the same reason you are, Lucifer. I summoned him. _

So  _ that _ was Erebus’ game. The Metatron grinned gleefully and cast his eyes about, looking for any glint of a weapon. When none showed his grin slipped a bit.

“Erebus! Do not forget our deal!” He shouted, desperately looking for any evidence of the trap. Surely that was what Erebus planned, yes? He had tricked Lucifer into coming here and now he would strike, destroy the Opposition in one fell swoop, and guarantee the Metatron’s power for all eternity. Images of that glorious reign, long perfected over countless centuries of daydreaming and meticulous planning, flickered at the edge of his vision in streaks of fabulous gold and heavenly white—dreams that would soon become reality.

Distracted by such wonderful imaginings, the Metatron failed to notice the doors of Babel grind silently open, and he also failed to see the knife that flew from that pitch-black maw, it’s black blade embedding itself deep into his chest. 

Gasping, he fell to his knees, grasping futilely at the blade’s handle. To his left Lucifer fell as well, clutching desperately at his throat, black beads of blood dripping between his pale fingers like tar.

_ I remember our deal, Metatron. I promised I would help enable the destruction of the Enemy. And I have. _

Blackness now clawed at the edges of his vision. It felt like ice was spreading from the blade, stabbing directly into his divine soul. He clawed at the sand, brilliant drops of gold spilling from his lips with every harsh breath. He struggled to stand, to call for help, to do  _ anything _ . But his body refused him and when he attempted to pull himself out of the useless mortal wrapping, his soul refused to budge. The ice was nearing his eyes now, and every breath felt like trying to breathe in molten lava. More Grace pooled by his knees and his vision was starting to fog over.

Panic set in and, like a trapped and wounded animal, he released his wings and attempted to flee. The pain was immeasurable. Instead of beating a steady tempo and lifting him away, the twin appendages fluttered like broken leaves, collapsing around him in matching, twitching piles of useless feathers.

He heard footsteps and managed to force his head up. If his throat had not been clogged with Grace, he might have screamed, so instead he whimpered in utter terror.

“ _ I promised to destroy the Enemy, _ ” Erebus repeated.

Darkness closed in and the last the Metatron saw was Lucifer collapsing to the ground, eyes already glassy, into a pool of his own pitch-black blood.

“ _ I never said it was  _ **_your_ ** _ Enemy. _ ”

  
  


* * *

_ 1 _ _ He wasn’t completely sure when they’d been given that title, but it was a mite bit better than having the word  _ **_Traitor_ ** _ flying around your head like an enthusiastic banner. _

_ 2 _ _ And he’d tried. He’d once seen the angel in a properly modern suit, and it had done delicious things to his insides. Aziraphale had apparently burned the clothes after that particular blessing, much to Crowley’s eternal disappointment. _

_ 3 _ _ Not even a snowball’s chance. Unlike the Hell that Dante’s Inferno described, Hell was either warm and moist or hot and dry. Most demons had one wish, and that was for decent air conditioning. _

_ 4 _ _ His old one having been miracled clean far too many times for him to ignore. Aziraphale had always managed to avoid the blood. Lucky bastard. _

_ 5 _ _ Again, excepting Beelzebub, who got to their feet like they really didn’t feel like moving at all—like a sullen teenager after an all-nighter. _

_ 6 _ _ Accompanied by both Aziraphale and Crowley, ostensibly in case of a ‘medical emergency’, Crowley had heard Aziraphale tell better lies in a church confessional. _

_ 7 _ _ The entire Council was going; mainly because Heaven had promised all the Archangels would be in attendance. If they couldn’t have a war you could be damn sure they weren’t going to miss the opportunity to posture whilst discussing a ground-breaking truce between both realms in order to catch a mass-celestial murderer. Eros’ assessment of the demons and angels as ‘children’ wasn’t entirely wrong at times. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was making up the chapter titles for my Beta (@FictiveFeline) to read and approve, I also had to come up with a short summary for each since she hadn't read the chapters in a while. This one's summary just very simply said 'In which Eros is made Queen without her consent and Lucifer is made very dead, also not by consent' which did actually make me giggle.
> 
> But yes, second time we have heard the murderer speak and now we have a name- Erebus! We shall definitely be seeing more of him later on.   
> (Also to be entirely honest, I really enjoyed writing the last half because Lucifer and the Metatron both annoyed the hell out of me and I got to kill them.)
> 
> Tomorrow- Michael reveals just how angry she is, Eros gets ProtectiveTM, and we finally return to Jasmine cottage with our resident witch!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, as always comments and kudos are very welcome :)


	22. A Tense Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael lets her anger get the better of her and we finally return to our favourite ~~witch~~ occultist.

Aziraphale hadn’t returned to the Ether after the last time; when he and Crowley had dragged Adam into it to prepare him for meeting Lucifer. It felt nice to let his wings out, the white feathers gleaming in the odd ever-present luminescence of the other dimension. It was slightly warm, too, and the absence of a sun was rather disconcerting to one who had seen it reliably for more than six thousand years but all the same he was still just glad to be out of Hell.

Even better, he had finally miracled his beloved old outfit on again and the comfortable and slightly worn fabric was a subtle blessing amongst all these new developments. Well, not  _ entirely _ new. Crowley was still there, raven-black wings held high on his back, and sunglasses firmly in place as he spoke quietly with Eros out of earshot of the Princes.

Aziraphale took a moment to straighten his bowtie, the movement reassuringly familiar, before a voice beside him made him jump.

“Looking forward to zzeeing your old bozzzez again?” Asked Beelzebub, glaring out over the endless dunes as the fly on their head twitched.

Aziraphale sighed, “Not especially. We didn’t ah… part on good terms, as it were.”

Beelzebub chuckled, “Believe me, I know. Not too dizzimilar from how Crowley left uzz, actually.”

Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley, the other demon’s silhouette a striking black against the omnipresent pale sand, “Yes, that was rather the impression I got when he came home.”

Beelzebub shifted uncomfortably, “You know we don’t hold it againzzt him now, yeah?”

“I’m sorry?”

Beelzebub grimaced, “The whole ‘Traitor’ thing. After what you two did for uzz, for her, what you did before, with the whole Antichrizzt debacle, we don’t hold it againzzt you anymore.”

Aziraphale nodded, “Oh, thank you.”

There was a crunch of fine sand and Dagon shifted into view beside Beelzebub, still cradling their wads of notes like they were her first child. She looked nervous.

“Err… Michael isn’t coming to this thing, is she?” She asked, pale eyes flitting from her silver studded boots to the pale sand to the featureless sky and then back to her boots again.

Beelzebub glanced at her incredulously, “You think she’d mizzz an opportunity like thizz?”

“Oh…” Dagon muttered, clutching her stack harder, “It’s just… well… I missed a few of her calls and I think she might be mad at me.”

Beelzebub made an understanding sort of grunt, “Ah, in that cazze hide behind Erozz when she showzz up.”

“Eros?”

“Oh, right. You didn’t know. Yeah, she prefers Erozz over being called Lilith. Helpzz her… forget her time with our dear old King.” Beelzebub clarified and Dagon nodded knowingly.

They stood in silence for a few more minutes before Dagon cleared her throat.

“They… They did say they were coming  _ alone _ , yes? Just the Archangels?”

Beelzebub sighed and pinched the bridge of their nose irritably, “ _ Yezz _ , they did. Juzzt them. We’ll outnumber them, zztop worrying.”

Beelzebub then moved off in Eros’ direction, pointedly not looking back, leaving Aziraphale alone with Dagon.

Sensing she was in desperate need of a distraction Aziraphale glanced at the papers she was so tightly clutching, “So the box was trapped?”

Dagon looked up sharply and nodded, visibly glad the conversation had been forced away from the imminently late arrivals, “Yeah. Nearly blew up in our damn hands. Triax managed to snuff it out before it got anywhere proper, but I suppose it already did too much damage on the message that mattered.”

Aziraphale hummed, “Well, at least it isn’t  _ entirely _ gone. We know at least that this Erebus character called Lucifer away, so we know for certain he went willingly.”

Dagon grimaced, “I know, but we don’t know  _ where _ the bastard-” She cut herself off abruptly, a clawed hand slapped over her mouth in an attempt to shut it faster. Aziraphale finished for her.

“No, we don’t know where he went, my dear, but we know he isn’t here at least.”

When Dagon finally managed to free her mouth she looked embarrassed, but Aziraphale didn’t mention it. After five minutes of silence Dagon spoke again in a much more subdued voice.

“I should never have trusted him.”

Aziraphale glanced at her, “Who?”

Dagon glared, “You know who. It was such a stupid idea. Rebelling against… against  _ Her _ . It was so stupid.  _ I _ was stupid.”

Aziraphale didn’t know Dagon particularly well, Crowley had only ever mentioned that she had a knack for irritating bureaucratic proceedings and was wickedly good at drumming up binding contracts that no human in all of history had ever managed to wriggle free from. All told she didn’t sound like the nicest person, but standing right next to her, hearing the true regret in her voice, let him sense that small spark that Eros clung to so tightly. Dagon’s spark was smaller than Crowley’s, if his was a sun then hers was a small bonfire; but it was still there, happily burning away in an otherwise velvety blackness.

It was similar to the spark in Beelzebub—although theirs was more akin to a raging forest fire—but, again, it was still there. There was still something that gave her hope.

“I know I was close to her.”

Aziraphale blinked, “Pardon?”

Dagon sighed and held the notes closer to her chest, “I can’t remember any specifics, no one in Hell can remember Before, but… I know I meant something to her. And when the War came, I knew she felt betrayed. I didn’t want it to come to a war, but I don’t think she believed me.”

_ Oh _ .

Oh, that’s why the spark felt familiar.

Aziraphale smiled, “Perhaps when this is done the truce will turn into an alliance and Eros can help you reconnect with Michael.”

Dagon started, staring at him incredulously, “You think Michael would listen to  _ me _ ?”

Aziraphale shrugged, “If you did mean something to her it will have left a mark. I know from experience that mark can never truly be scrubbed away, no matter how long you try. You may not have what you once had but you could perhaps salvage something if you explain. Eros wouldn’t stand for any sort of unhappiness that could be avoided, she would help you, I’m certain.”

Dagon’s staring was starting to get a little unnerving and Aziraphale had half a mind to ask plainly what she was thinking but he left her to her thoughts. The Archangels were terribly late.

Dagon had sent the message barely five minutes after Eros’ order and she had reported it being received. A reply had swiftly followed declaring that the meeting would take place in the Ether for the negotiations and exchange. All told the Hellish side did indeed outnumber the five Archangels attending with all seven Princes along with Hastur, Ligur, Dagon, and Crowley as well as Aziraphale and Eros; but Aziraphale knew exactly how good a fighter Michael was and he wasn’t at all sure if having the numbers on their side would be a help or a hindrance.

Then again Eros was an unknown element in combat and her presence might just be enough to convince Michael a fight wasn’t worth it. At least he hoped so.

When he turned back to Dagon her stare hadn’t wavered, but her lips were curling into a small smile.

“What?” He asked, feeling rather scrutinised and slightly self-conscious.

“You and Crowley… you made it work, didn’t you? You’re making it work.”

Aziraphale flushed a deep red, “I… I’m not sure what you mean, my dear.”

Dagon snorted, “Sure, play dumb. Practically  _ everyone _ knows you two are a  _ thing _ . I mean, loads of us thought Crowley had turned Traitor because of you. You know, before current events and all.”

Aziraphale was sure he wasn’t ready to describe the rather delicate relationship he had with the most important person in the Universe as a ‘thing’. To be entirely honest he wasn’t sure if it even deserved a label yet. They’d kissed, sure, and cuddled 1 and been rather soppily domestic come to think of it, but they were hardly  _ lovers _ !

Apparently taking pity on him, Dagon sighed, “It’s just nice, you know? Knowing that not all of us are incapable of loving again. That She didn’t take that away from us too.”

Aziraphale had opened his mouth to reply when he felt a sudden explosion of Heavenly energy to the left of the group. Dagon had sensed it too and had stiffened like a cornered cat, her agitation visibly manifesting in the silvery scales coating the column of her throat.

With the divine energy also came the clear sense that someone was very, very pissed off.

Aziraphale hurried over next to Eros and Crowley who were both staring at the newly arrived Archangels.

All five had their full three pairs of wings on display, spread impressively wide for maximum effect. Michael headed off the group, clad in close-fitting armour moulded from Heavenly  _ adamas _ and wielding a worryingly large broadsword engraved with golden runes. The sword also happened to be on fire and seeing it brought back the intense need for his own flaming sword; which, unfortunately, happened to be in a cardboard box in a post office somewhere in England with the rest of the tools needed to summon the Apocalyptic Horsepersons. Unable to do much, Aziraphale just clasped his hands in front of him and hoped he didn’t look too worried.

Leviathan snorted derisively as the Archangels approached, all wearing armour and bearing weapons, although Zadkiel looked like he would rather be holding bandages than a viciously sharp  _ Dao _ blade.

“They get here late and sssstill they mussst posssture! The nerve!”

Eros sighed and merely watched the group approach.

Unsurprisingly, it was Michael who stepped forward.

“We have arrived, release Barachiel and we can begin the negotiations.” She was tight-lipped and Aziraphale could see her hand clenching the broadsword so tightly her gauntlet was buckling under the strain.

Beelzebub stepped forward until they were just a few feet from Michael, effectively ensuring she wouldn’t just cut and run to avoid talking, and they waved their hand. Hastur and Ligur edged forward, holding onto Barachiel by his arms. The Seraph looked mortally embarrassed but stepped forward with as much dignity as he could as they shoved him over to the Archangels, Hastur grinning far too widely at the Seraph’s hastily retreating back.

Barachiel took one look at Michael before teleporting back to Heaven as the Dukes themselves nodded at Eros before returning to Hell in twin puffs of vaguely yellowish smoke.

Michael glared down at Beelzebub, “What did you do to my brother?”

Beelzebub blinked, “What-?”

“Gabriel is  _ dead, _ and his body is  _ gone _ , you monster, what in Heaven’s name did you  _ do _ ?” The other Archangels shifted uneasily behind Michael, clearly as surprised by the question as Beelzebub was. To the Prince’s credit, they didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

“I didn’t do anything to him-”

“ _ Liar _ !” Michael spat taking a step forward, “Who else could it be? I know you were meeting with him; did you grow bored? Decided he was worth more dead?”

Michael was infuriating herself with her own words, her face growing angrier with every syllable. The crackle of building energy was tangible, Aziraphale could feel his wings respond to it, like a flower opening to face the sun. The realisation that Michael clearly didn’t intend to talk, that she had convinced herself that she was in the right, came far too late as she lifted her blade with the speed and grace only God’s General could command.

Time seemed to slow as the Princes reacted, their own infernal energy spilling out into the Ether as they grew claws and fangs, summoning their own twisted weapons. Beelzebub themselves began to grow their chitinous shell as impromptu armour but they wouldn’t be able to shift in time. The blade was already far too close and Aziraphale was too far away to help.

Michael snarled-

And was thrown fifty feet backwards, the sword flying out of her hand to bury itself up to the hilt in a faraway dune. Everyone seemed to take a breath and hold it, frozen with hands still drawing swords or unsheathing claws.

Eros stepped forward, eyes glowing a deep and furious gold, and when she spoke her voice was like a hurricane, shivering with a deep sonorous power that didn’t feel Heavenly or Hellish but still utterly terrifying.

“You will  _ not _ harm them, Michael.”

Michael struggled to her feet, specks of sand quickly leaping from her armour as if afraid to dirty it. The Archangel’s snarl didn’t waver as she stood and launched herself at this new contender, her sword rematerializing in her hand, poised to swing downwards.

“ **_Biah uniglag, Archangel Michael!_ ** ” Eros bellowed, the Enochian command ringing in the air.

Michael immediately fell to one knee, eyes wide and disbelieving as she found herself unable to stand.

“What. The.  _ FUCK? _ ” She yelled, directed at no one in particular. She pushed at the apparently invisible restraints and again was forced down, “How  _ dare _ you-!”

Eros’ lips curled into a contemptuous snarl of her own, “ **_Bolaen shiraki_ ** !”

Michael’s mouth moved but no sound came out and she paled even further.

Beelzebub whistled low, “How the hell’d you do that?”

Eros’ eyes slowly returned to their normal shade and she shrugged, “My Brother and Sister, Justice and Wrath, they trained Michael Before. My Sister was a bit hot-headed so my Brother… let’s say he put in a few safety measures in case my Sister’s influence rubbed off a bit too hard. It came in handy from time to time.”

With Michael still fuming but pinned and mute, Zadkiel approached the group, keeping his hands well away from his  _ Dao _ .

“My a-apologies, we had no idea Michael would react in such a… a violent manner.”

Asmodeus huffed, “As if she reacts in any other manner.”

Eros lifted a hand and the Prince fell silent. Zadkiel turned his attention to her.

“Am I to assume you are in charge here?”

Eros nodded, sparing Michael a glance, “I am. And I will not hesitate to defend my charges.” With a quiet huff of displaced air, she let her wings unfold. Aziraphale had seen them so often, had preened them over and over whilst Crowley hummed Queen songs beside him under his breath, that he supposed he hadn’t appreciated them properly. Even un-spread they were gigantic, and they glimmered like shards of stardust in the odd, soft luminescence of the Ether—even the stunted one was beautiful. 

Zadkiel sucked in a breath at the sight and Michael stopped her struggling. The Princes, too, seemed entranced until Beelzebub growled low in their throat, snapping the fragile moment.

Zadkiel swallowed, audibly, “I-I see. Should I know you?” He gestured to the wings, “You aren’t an Archangel, are you?”

Eros smiled, the expression miles softer than the hideous defensive snarl of just two minutes ago, “I am simply here to help. Any and all explanations will be given once the Truce is final.”

Zadkiel licked his lips nervously, “I… will confer with my siblings. Could you please release Michael?”

Eros considered for a moment before glancing at Michael, “ **Torezodu** .”

Michael leapt to her feet, anger still sparking in her eyes, until Zadkiel took her by the arm and led her back to the remaining three Archangels.

Crowley let out a deep and heavy breath, “This is going well then.”

***

Anathema checked her phone again. It was the sixteenth time she had done so today, and she knew Newt was beginning to worry. Crowley had provided very confusing updates on the current crisis and the last one had simply read ‘ _ Everything’s calmed down, meeting with Heaven soon _ .’

Learning about current events through vague text was starting to drive her mad and Newt, sweet caring Newt,had been dealing with her increasingly erratic moods the only way he knew how.

With many fresh cups of tea.

“Anathema?” Newt had poked his head around the door again, a now-familiar gently steaming china cup held in one hand and another hefty grimoire in the other.

Anathema nodded without looking away from the text in front of her, tapping her lip with the well-worn tip of a pencil. Newt eased past the door and gingerly began picking his way through the snowstorm of open books and scattered notes. Anathema ignored him and continued to page her way through  _ Harel’s Grimoire: A guide to the Ancient Beings that Rule our Cosmos _ . The old witch had been wrong about everything so far but it was possible she had found out  _ something _ useful; although her description of the Serpent of Eden’s human form as a tall, thin man with black hair and olive skin was a bit too far off for her liking and Aziraphale’s hair could hardly be mistaken as any colour even related to blond. She was just scribbling down a few notes about a nymph who sounded an awful lot like Eros when Newt coughed awkwardly.

She glanced up at him, still scribbling furiously away with one hand whilst reaching for the grimoire he’d delivered with the other, “What, Newt?”

“Erm… Have you found anything yet?” He asked, pulling at the collar of his hideous sweater nervously.

Anathema huffed and set the pencil down, “No. Nothing concrete. All I have are vague rumours.” She stood and rummaged around her notes whilst Newt watched, fraying the edge of the awful sweater with the tips of his fingers. Snatching her prize from beneath a thick volume full of fantastical drawings of angels, she edged her way back to her ever-worrisome boyfriend and perched on the edge of the coffee table.

“No matter how I look at this it doesn’t make sense. First these angels and demons begin disappearing before turning up very much  _ dead _ , and now humans? Are you sure Shadwell has it right? You know how paranoid he can be.”

Newt snorted, “Believe me, I wish I could believe that was all it was. But what he told me… it isn’t weird weather patterns, Anathema, or stupid tabloid rubbish. This stuff’s being reported all over the world. I had a look, it’s legit.”

Anathema flapped her notes, “But I’ve checked and checked, and it just doesn’t make sense! Killing something gives a certain power to the murderer, it's why a lot of black magic involves sacrifice, but to go from something as powerful as an angel or demon to simple humans? It just doesn’t fit. Crowley said that more than forty demons were killed and if we assume Heaven suffered the same losses then that’s eighty celestial beings slaughtered. That doesn’t even account for Gabriel and still that amount of necromantic energy would be enough to cast the largest black magic spell several times over with power to spare.” She gestured to a pile of ratty-looking journals haphazardly thrown across the sofa, “I went through every written account I could, and in the only instance where a witch successfully managed to slay a demon, the energy the death produced overloaded the spell and killed her assistant. She explicitly warns against trying to use celestial death energy to power necromancy.”

Newt shrugged a little helplessly, “So?”

Anathema rolled her eyes, “So, if this creature is murdering celestials to harvest the energy they produce upon death, why the hell is it targeting humans?”

Newt frowned, “Didn’t Heaven and Hell recall everyone? It could have needed more power.”

Anathema gaped, “For  _ what _ ? A human soul produces a pittance of energy when it crosses the threshold when compared to a celestial, it would be like comparing a lamp to a nuclear reactor. What would be the point?” She shook her head and tiptoed back over to a hitherto undisturbed pile of grimoires, “I have to be missing something. A spell or a ritual, this thing  _ must _ be building power for something. Something big. There’s no point to it otherwise, and whatever this is, it’s clearly intelligent.”

Newt coughed.

“What?” She asked, already delving into the pile of musty old books and selecting a particularly dirty one with what looked like blood staining half the pages. When Newt didn’t answer she abandoned the book and turned to face him.

Only to have a crumpled piece of paper shoved in her face. Newt was smiling too wide again and his free hand was twitching.

“Would some prophecies help?”

Anathema stared at the extremely dog-eared and crumpled page with the niggling feeling her mouth had fallen open. Newt shifted slightly, leaning on his right and then left foot, as if trying to gauge which angle would upset her the least. Slowly, she stood, eyes still focused on the paper crumpled in Newt’s fist, a fist that was shaking slightly.

Newt’s face fell when she failed to reply and he looked to the floor, “I… I understand if you’re angry. I-I know you wanted to stop being a Descendant and live your life without any cryptic instructions. But I thought they might come in handy so I s-sort of took the first page and hid it under our bed.”

When Anathema still didn’t respond Newt swallowed nervously again, “I didn’t read any, but I-I figured that if Agnes for-foresaw what I would do then she’d have a plan for it. S-so I kept it safe under our bed just… just in case-”

The rest of his sentence was cut off when Anathema quite literally bowled him over into a crushing hug. 

“Oh, you beautiful, stupid man!”

Newt stared, “Y-you’re not mad?”

Anathema laughed a little deliriously and began to pepper his face with feather-light kisses 2 , “Of course I am you moron! But it doesn’t matter!”

Newt rather thought it did and made a questioning sort of ‘Mhuh?’ noise.

Anathema rolled her eyes and pulled Newt up to sit beside her, “You’ve just solved everything, Newt! If Agnes wrote about after the Apocalypse then she must have seen this, she must have seen the murders!”

Newt nodded and then remembered the scrunched-up ball in his hand, “Oh! Oh, right, yes. Err… Here you go.”

Anathema took the crumpled ball like a Saint accepting a blessing and gently unfolded the creased paper until it resembled a page more than a demented snowball. Unlike Agnes’ book that Newt had become familiar with over the past month, the page was a mess, with writing covering every square inch of paper both front and back. Anathema whistled.

“One hell of a backup plan, Agnes.” She murmured as she stood and went hunting through the research related mess for another notepad. Pad found and another unfortunate pencil pilfered from Newt’s desk, Anathema sat back down next to her thoroughly bamboozled boyfriend.

Agnes’ handwriting was looping and infuriatingly delicate, but Anathema had grown so used to reading it that she began scribbling down prophecies immediately. Accustomed from long years of study to search number by number she wrote down each prophecy in ascending order and her notepad was half-full by the time she finished, hand aching and pencil worn down to a dull nub. Newt had left several times to refill on his tea and Anathema surmised that his blood must run with the stuff by now. She herself was much too full of adrenaline to even attempt to think of caffeine, and she preferred coffee anyway.

“So,” Newt began as he sipped on his fifth (?) cuppa of the hour, “Anything coherent? Or did Agnes live up to her last name?”

Anathema chuckled and began flipping through the notepad, “First few are her usual tips, good investments and the like, then… Oh, she talks about Eros!”

Newt raised his eyebrows as he read over Anathema’s shoulder, “Prophecy number 4275, ‘Treat thine angel companion kindly, fore he carries the goldene goddess. Be not afraid, mine dear Anathema, fore though she may bear a name of the infernal, she brings naught but good will.’” He smiled a little ruefully, “Well, that might have been useful earlier.”

Anathema sighed, “Hindsight makes fools of us all.”

She flipped a few more pages, “A couple rather more mundane prophecies. Something about a… wedding? Or maybe a funeral? No, a wedding. Some tech advancements. Huh I didn’t know phones would do  _ that _ , err… hold on, she does tend to go on tangents. Ah! Another one about Eros and-” She cut off, her face going white as a sheet under her spectacles.

“Anathema?” Newt watched warily as the woman he loved took a deep shuddering breath.

Licking her suddenly dry lips Anathema focused back on the page, “Prophecy number 4302. ‘Mine dearest Descendent Anathema, seek the goldene goddess who sharl be acc’mpneed by the Two Powers, fore I tell you…’” She took another deep breath, “‘Fore I tell you, the ende yet draweth nigh once more.’”

The silence in the living room was heavy and cloying. Newt gripped his mug so hard it hurt but he managed to keep breathing.

“Shit…” He managed, injecting the single syllable with an ocean’s worth of terror.

Anathema nodded numbly, “Shit.”

Abruptly she stood and fumbled around in her pocket, removing her sleek phone 3 and tapping it a few times before holding it to her ear.

“What are you doing?” Newt was fairly sure this wasn’t a matter for the police. Then he remembered he personally knew the Antichrist, so Anathema’s first instinct was probably not to call someone human.

Anathema huffed as the phone kept ringing, “Phoning Crowley. If there’s another Apocalypse coming, I think we need the big guns.”

“Wait, isn’t Crowley meeting with Heaven or something? He can’t possibly get a  _ signal _ there-!”

With a decidedly obnoxious click that even Newt could hear, the call got through, and a rather harried sounding Crowley answered with a terse, “ _ What _ ?”

Anathema glanced at her notes and swallowed, “We’ve got a situation. The world-ending kind.”

  
  


* * *

_ 1 _ _ Crowley would deny this under pain of death. _

_ 2 _ _ After having released him from her strangling grip, Newt wondered idly if she was at all related to Crowley. _

_ 3 _ _ An object Newt had been forbidden from touching ever since her last one crashed and died in his hand. He could use landlines, but mobile phones apparently regarded him the same way a mouse regarded a starving cat, except the phone was arguably more terrified. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (Note, these are rough translations because apparently Enochian is a difficult language to translate):  
> “Biah uniglag, Archangel Michael” - "Stand down, Archangel Michael"  
> “Bolaen shiraki” - "Be silent"  
> “Torezodu” - "Rise"
> 
> I had quite a bit of fun with this chapter. I won't lie, I love having Eros be protective; especially of her demon babes, she's _really_ protective of them.  
> And we've reunited with Anathema! Woohoo! I also loved writing her side because, A) I love writing about spells and rituals and given that she's a ~~witch~~ _occultist_ she'll be knowledgeable about both, and B) I got to write Newt being Supportive and Confused, an aspect of his character I find ridiculously cute.  
> Oh, also the world's ending again, yay!
> 
> Tomorrow, the Them are finally involved, both Sides discuss their findings, and a disturbing new fact is learned about the murderer...
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, as always comments and kudos are very welcome :)


	23. Reunions and Investigations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heaven and Hell discuss matters, Adam gets along with Eros, and things go to shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning:  
> Upcoming character death. Ye have been warned.

Adam whistled cheerfully as he raced through Tadfield, Dog barking happily from his basket. The ex-Antichrist could almost forget the autumn chill whipping past his face as he basked in the little terrier’s giddy delight at the frankly ridiculous speed at which they were hurtling through the sleepy streets.

Pepper, Wensleydale, and Brian were shrieking with the exact same amount of giddy enthusiasm as Adam made their bikes rocket through the streets. Pepper was laughing like a madwoman and her outstretched arm nearly clipped a passing sparrow. Adam  _ technically _ hadn’t meant to speed up the bikes, but all his senses were screaming to  _ get to Anathema’s house, you twit, something exciting’s about to happen! _

And Adam was rarely one to have to be told twice 1 so he and the Them had gone haring off in the general direction of Jasmine cottage at a speed that, had it not been for the ex-Antichrist subconsciously manipulating the laws of physics, would have probably reduced them all down to atoms by now. 

The pleasant countryside sped past the Them in a blur of field-green and occasional sheep-white until the slightly less sheep-shaped silhouette of Jasmine cottage appeared around the corner wherein Adam slowed down to a much more reasonable speed lest he end up upside down in that awfully scratchy hedge again. When he and the Them had dumped their bikes by Dick Turpin he raced into the front garden and stopped dead in his tracks.

Stood in the slightly frosty centre of the garden was what looked like some sort of early Halloween get together. A smile broke across his face as he recognised a familiar pair with red and white hair.

“Uncle Crowley! Uncle Zira!” He practically launched himself into Aziraphale’s side, managing to loop his long arms around the angel’s neck and hold on until Aziraphale was able to hug him back.

“Adam! So good to see you dear boy!” Aziraphale declared whilst buckling slightly under the strain. Adam chuckled and let go. Crowley stood to the side, a small smirk creasing his face as he ruffled Adam’s hair affectionately.

“You doing okay troublemaker?” He asked, sliding his glasses down slightly to eye him up and down.

Adam smiled, “I’m fine, Uncle Crowley.”

Then he remembered the rest of the entourage. Looking past Aziraphale, Adam took in what looked like a very dysfunctional family reunion. One side was clad in utterly awesome white armour with swords of varying sizes strapped to their sides and the other looked like they had walked out of one of those gothic horror films his mum never let him watch. One in particular—who happened to be wearing a red sash—looked  _ very _ familiar and was actively avoiding his gaze but his attention soon shifted to the woman standing beside them. She was roughly Aziraphale’s height and looked as though she had been dragged away from some sort of fancy posh people party as she stood shivering slightly in her black dress.

She was also staring straight at him.

“Adam?” She said and suddenly that nagging feeling in the back of his mind resolved.

“Auntie Eros?” He barely gave her time to respond as he ran to her for a hug as well. Having seen him coming she was much more prepared for an armful of eleven-year-old and held him until he wriggled to get back down.

Once both feet were back on the ground a million and one questions started buzzing through his mind, a few finding his mouth in a terribly confusing spiel of ‘so who’re they?’ and ‘what’re you doing here?’ and ‘thought you were stuck in Uncle Zira?’ until he heard the cottage door open behind him.

Anathema stepped out, glaring critically over the gathering. Her gaze landed on the small woman who had been avoiding Adam’s eyes and the much scarier woman clad in armour and clutching the hilt of a sheathed-but-still-awesome broadsword.

“Do the two realms come in peace?” She asked, her eyes flickering to the broadsword.

Both women nodded, although neither looked at each other. Anathema’s scowl deepened.

“Swear it, or I will bar your entry into my home and keep the prophecies for those able to put aside their grievances in the face of the world’s End.”

Both beings licked their lips and glanced at each other.

The smaller of the two sighed, “I, Beelzebub, Prince of Hell, do swear that the forces of Hell come in peace and not war.”

The armoured woman gritted her teeth but sighed as well, “I, Michael, Archangel of Heaven, do swear that the forces of Heaven come in peace and not war.”

Anathema glanced pointedly at the armour and weapons. Michael grimaced and snapped her fingers and suddenly she and the other four were dressed in pale suits. Adam was rather disappointed when he saw the weapons were gone as well. Anathema stepped back and wiggled her fingers in a complicated looking pattern. The horseshoe above the cottage door shivered and glowed before falling still. Apparently satisfied, Anathema looked back to the gathering.

“Well,” She said in a much less ominous voice, “Newt’s prepared some tea. Not quite ten to five but Agnes was more accurate than usual, it should still be warm.”

***

Aziraphale wondered idly if Anathema was holding up alright. When he’d first entered the living room, he had been momentarily convinced he’d walked into the den of some terrible book hoarder 2 until Anathema had started rooting around amidst the piles of notes, unveiling a sofa and several chairs. The Princes filed in first with Beelzebub seating themselves in an armchair like it was a throne and the others scrambling to claim the rest of the seats—looking bizarrely incongruous amidst the soft homely feel of the living room. The Archangels followed 3 and stood at ease around the room. Aziraphale didn’t miss that they happened to position themselves in the most strategically important places the living room had to offer and apparently the Princes didn’t either, but all Beelzebub did was raise an eyebrow and Leviathan rolled their eyes.

Eros walked in side-by-side with Adam and seated herself in a very plush sofa that had appeared, almost unnoticeably, beside Beelzebub’s own comfortable makeshift throne. The sofa was helpfully large enough to accommodate an angel and two more demons and soon enough every eye was focused on Anathema.

The tension could have been cut with a knife. The raw power roiling in the room was near stifling and it was taking all the willpower Aziraphale possessed to not fluff up his wings in an effort to shield himself; it was practically the celestial equivalent of a static nuclear explosion. Aziraphale was mildly surprised that the house was still standing. Then again, it was a witch’s house, so it probably knew better than that 4 . 

He suspected that the only reason both sides were being so civil had something to do with Eros; he well remembered how she had dealt with Israfiel back in the condemned apartment, and he could just sense that little tickle of power at the back of his mind. She wasn’t forcing the calm in the room, merely projecting an aura of  _ peace _ and  _ safety _ , gently encouraging the tension into easing. 

If Aziraphale had ever possessed a mother he found himself wondering if he would have felt like this around her. 

There was also the matter of the Antichrist sat cross-legged beside Eros, eyeing the gathering suspiciously, with Dog gently growling in his lap. Aziraphale suspected that neither side was willing to incur the wrath of the mysterious little boy who refused his destiny and who was being coddled by the new Queen of Hell.

Anathema turned back from her impromptu cleaning session and looked to her audience. If she was nervous, Aziraphale couldn’t tell.

“I assume Crowley relayed my message?” She asked.

Eros nodded, her hands clasped neatly over her jeans 5 , “He did. You believe this prophecy to be true?”

Anathema nearly glared, “I do. Agnes’ prophecies have never been wrong before and I do not doubt them now.”

Michael scoffed from where she leaned against the wall by the living room’s window, “So let’s hear one. Prove their validity.”

Anathema puffed up a little and produced a small notepad. She flicked through it for a moment, smiling like she’d just got the meaning behind a good joke, before reading, “Prophecy number 4303. ‘The leader of Heav’n shall doubteth mine own w'rds, but I asketh of her if 't be true I am so misguid'd then wh're is thy Voice of God?’”

Michael flinched and the other Archangels paled to the point of translucency. Beelzebub noticed and raised another petite eyebrow, “Zzzomething you want to share with the group, Michael?”

Michael scowled but, presumably seeing no other way out, sighed, “The Metatron disappeared from Heaven. He’s been missing for days.” She glared at the notepad, “No one outside of Heaven knows he’s gone.”

Eros’ eyes widened in surprise, “Well I suppose that makes sense.”

Anathema looked perplexed, “How does it make any sense?”

Eros glanced around the room, “Hasn’t everyone already established this murderer kills in  _ pairs _ ? If the Metatron is missing, we must assume it is for the same reason Lucifer abdicated.”

Now it was Michael’s turn to look confused, “Lucifer  _ left _ ?”

“Of course, dear, why else would I be in charge? I’m certainly not a Prince.”

Aziraphale and Crowley watched the argument bat back and forth. It was supremely surreal to be in the same room as the most powerful angels and demons in existence anyway; and watching them discuss the implications of their leaders having up and left was just plain  _ odd _ . Although, lately, not much in Aziraphale’s life was making one lick of sense. Other than Crowley, of course, but he had been a staple of Aziraphale’s life for longer than he cared to remember.

Adam, however, was utterly fascinated. When the Them finally arrived, after having helped Newt in the kitchen with drinks, they too sat and stared as both sides bickered back and forth over how the disappearances were connected. The argument stalled a little when Newt came in with the tea 6 but was about to swing right back when a small cough interrupted them.

Dagon looked around nervously, not meeting anyone’s eyes, as she clutched the notes to her chest, “We have evidence. L-Lucifer received i-instructions from some outside force calling itself ‘Erebus’, that’s how we know he was ordered away. If the Metatron was called away by the s-same method he should have the notes as well, shouldn’t he? Would that be enough proof?”

Eros hummed in thought, “Possibly. But the Archangels would certainly need to check.”

Michael bristled, “We will, but first I want to know what Hell knows. Obviously, you know more than we do.”

Eros nodded, glancing carefully at each of the Princes, “Certainly. We are, of course, allied. Sharing information seems the best course of action. However, I would like to see what Anathema has to say on the matter. Judging by the, ah, mess from earlier I dare say she must have found something of value.”

Anathema looked surprised but recovered well enough, “I suppose I should start with the basics…”

She cleared her throat, “These murders began three days after the Apocalypse with the deaths of two members of the lower castes of both sides.”

Beelzebub nodded as did Michael.

“They were killed within hours of each other, but this was not enough evidence to establish a link. Both sides, understandably, suspected the other but were still in shock from the failed Apocalypse so any retaliation was considered pointless.” Again, she paused, and the heads of both sides nodded, albeit grudgingly.

“The pattern continued until finally it was noticed. The total dead by the time both sides realised this was the doing of some third party was sixteen, yes?”

Leviathan nodded, “Asss far asss we can tell it wasss. That isss when Beelzebub came up with their plan.”

“Right, but the plan failed?”

Beelzebub nodded jerkily, crunching another sugar cube quietly between their teeth.

Anathema looked back to Michael, “The death toll kept increasing and by the time both sides decided to take drastic action the murderer had slain Gabriel.”

The room seemed to hold its breath and Aziraphale felt Eros inhale sharply. Coincidentally, the tension died down and Anathema continued.

“By the time both Heaven and Hell recalled their agents the total dead was more than eighty-”

“Final count was one hundred and four, plus Gabriel, and not including Lucifer or the Metatron,” Eros interrupted.

Anathema hastily amended her notes, “Right, one hundred and four demons and angels were slain by the time both sides retreated. By all accounts Gabriel was the last confirmed to have been killed, almost exactly two months after the apocalypse failed. Around the same time the pattern breaks and the murderer switches target victims-”

Beelzebub frowned, “What do you mean ‘ _ zzwitchezz _ ?”

Anathema raised an eyebrow, “You don’t know?”

Asmodeus snorted, “Obviously not. Would you care to enlighten us? Whom did the murderer target next?”

Anathema blinked, “Humans. Newt’s been in contact with Shadwell and he’s been tracking it as it unfolds. According to him and the international media, hundreds of thousands of people have gone missing worldwide.”

Belphegor grunted, “So what? Humans go missing all the time. There’re billions of ‘em, bound to lose a few here and there.”

For the first time, Uriel spoke, “That isn’t entirely true,” She glanced to Michael who nodded resignedly, “We sent Barachiel to Earth to investigate these disappearances.”

Belphegor looked surprised, “Heaven taking an interest in the affairs of mortals? Never thought I’d see the day.”

Uriel continued as if Belphegor hadn’t spoken, “The disappearances were happening before Gabriel was slain. In light of the celestial murders it was a less important matter, but we decided it would be best if we covered every possibility. By the time Gabriel was… well, when we lost him, some fifty thousand people had already gone missing. Normally we would have ignored the matter entirely as such things are sadly not uncommon, but the manner in which these people were disappearing was highly suspect so Barachiel was sent in.”

“In what way wasss it sssussspect?” Leviathan asked, sipping at their tea absentmindedly.

“They disappeared without a trace. Completely. We grew interested when we received word that a high-ranking priest had gone missing. We sent a group of angels, two Cherubs and a Seraph, to find him but they came up with nothing. It was like he suddenly just didn’t exist. If he had been killed by another human, we would have received his soul, but we didn’t, so we assumed it was The Murderer.” She finished, one hand fiddling with the hem of her suit.

Eros frowned, “What makes you say that?”

This time Michael answered, “We spoke with Azrael. Whoever, or whatever, this monster is, it has the ability to steal the souls of those it kills.”

The room fell silent. Aziraphale could feel his heart roar in his ears. That shouldn’t have been possible. The soul could be destroyed, certainly, but  _ stolen _ ? Judging by the faces of the Council they weren’t too pleased with the news either, Eros looked like she was going to be sick.

Anathema gasped, “That’s  _ it! _ ”

Michael looked at her sharply, “What? What’s  _ ‘it’?” _

Anathema again went hunting through her worryingly tall tower of notes before pulling a crumpled stack of paper triumphantly into her grasp.

Eros cocked an eyebrow, “Anathema, dear, what is it?”

“The spell!” Anathema crowed, looking out over her befuddled and slightly concerned audience, “I thought whatever this thing was it was building power for some sort of spell. It didn’t make much sense considering the most powerful necromantic ritual could have been performed several times over with only three or four celestial deaths, but if it isn’t death energy but  _ souls  _ it was after then I’ve been looking in the wrong place!”

She looked to Aziraphale, “Do you know of any rituals that require a soul?”

Aziraphale spluttered for a moment, “Not off the top of my head, no, but I can miracle some of my books here, I’m sure I can find something given enough time.”

Anathema nodded, “Right. Here’s what we need. Aziraphale, you and Crowley need to go through every occult book you can find, anything connected to the use of souls could be useful. I’ll need some help to try and decipher the prophecies, Agnes knew what she was doing but not all of them make sense to me, so I’ll need help from both sides. We also need to mobilise Heaven and Hell, if this thing is attempting to use celestial souls in some sort of spell, I guarantee you the results won’t be pretty. Both sides need to be ready if it comes to a war because I doubt this thing will stay on Earth if it is determined to get more power. Understood?”

The room was silent yet again and Anathema sighed, “I said,  _ understood _ ?”

There was a chorus of vaguely affirmative noises and Anathema smiled. Aziraphale had begun thinking on what books could be useful, his mind filled to the brim with the names of hundreds of grimoires and spell books, when Eros inhaled sharply again.

“What’s that?” Asked Adam.

“What?” Eros asked, sounding perplexed. Aziraphale turned in time to see a growing red stain blooming under her jumper. Gingerly she lifted the material, revealing the newly opened wound on her side. Aziraphale stifled a gasp but before he could move in to assist, Adam beat him to it. Screwing his eyes shut in concentration, the ex-Antichrist pressed his fingers on either side of the weeping gash and between blinks the wound closed over.

Adam leaned back and smiled, blissfully unaware at the impossibility of what he had just done, “There, it shouldn’t hurt anymore now, Auntie.”

The stunned silence was broken by Crowley, “Huh, Lucifer’s blade, Lucifer’s sorta son. S’pose it makes sense.”

After the display, Anathema was gratified to see the members of both sides act upon her orders with a bit more enthusiasm.

***

Adam sat outside. It was cold but in that odd way that nobody truly minded. The house was full of demons and angels and it had been jolly exciting but exhausting after a while, especially when he couldn’t understand what they were talking about half the time.

Uncle Zira and Uncle Crowley had sequestered themselves in the living room surrounded by a veritable library of dusty old books and, as Adam understood it, were busy looking for a spell of some sort. He would have joined them but apparently none of the books were in English 7 , so he’d retreated outside with Dog. Michael had zoomed back up to Heaven and back in a cool flash of lightning and had then gone on a rant about somebody called Selaphiel. All Adam could gather from this far outside was that this Selaphiel had not been very helpful but had been able to confirm something about ‘delivering notes’. 

Whatever that meant. 

Michael and the demon with the silver scales had been sorting through the pile of notes the demon had brought with her for the past hour and every time Adam checked in on them they were sitting a little closer. Anathema, Zadkiel, and Mammon were all working on the prophecies. And Uriel and Belphegor had been Up and Down several times, relaying messages from the remaining Princes and Archangels in the kitchen as everyone got ready for  _ something _ .

Adam just wished he knew  _ what _ .

Of course, he had been in the living room whilst they’d had that very important discussion but almost none of it had made sense. Adam had grown up with fantasy books and superheroes but soul-stealing? He wasn’t at all clear on that. So, he sat outside whilst the Them raced about the cottage making a general nuisance of themselves 8 and he had a bit of a think.

A few weeks earlier, unbeknownst to Adam, Aziraphale had sat in the exact same spot. They had been thinking about wildly different things—as is usually the case when comparing the thoughts of eleven-year-old human(ish) boys to millennia-old angels—but they had another thing in common.

Eros sat down beside him as he watched his breath fog in the chilly evening air. The gently setting sun illuminated her hair and turned it into a pleasant honey colour and her eyes glowed that astonishing gold even more brightly than usual. Adam thought she was very pretty.

“What’re you thinking about?” She asked, after a brief, comfortable silence.

Adam hummed, “I’m confused.”

“What about?”

“Everything? I thought the Apocalypse was over. I sent Lucifer back Down, didn’t that stop it?”

Eros paused thoughtfully, though Adam could have sworn he saw her flinch, “I don’t know, my dear.”

Adam frowned, “But you’re a grown up. I know they don’t know everything but you’re  _ really  _ old. More like a great-aunt really.”

Eros chuckled, “So is Aziraphale, so is Crowley. Almost everyone in the cottage is very, very old. But I’m afraid age and wisdom do not always coincide. My Brother was Wisdom itself, but he wasn’t wise because he was old. He wasn’t even the oldest of my Siblings, yet he was wiser than all of us.”

Adam’s eyes widened, “So your brother would know what to do?”

Eros looked at him and Adam was struck by how old her eyes were. Physically she didn’t look much older than Anathema but her eyes… Adam shuddered slightly.

“No. He might know bits, he could guide us, perhaps, but he wouldn’t  _ know _ .” She shifted on the bench slightly, a scarf appearing from nowhere to wrap around her neck, “My Brother had the power to predict the future.”

Adam nodded, “Like Agnes Nutter?”

Eros smiled, “Yes, like Agnes. And, like Agnes, he only saw flashes of what was to come. Sometimes he wouldn’t know what he had seen until it had passed but, more often than not, he was able to figure out what he was seeing before it happened. Though his power was not infallible. I cannot begin to count the times where I or my Siblings managed to surprise him or how often that annoyed him.”

Adam smiled back, “So your brothers and sisters are like you but also not like you?”

“Correct. We each have our own… speciality, as it were. My domain is love; I hold sway over every aspect of love. The good and the bad.”

Adam looked back at the house, “So you made Uncle Zira and Uncle Crowley love each other?”

Eros looked startled, “What? Oh no, no I didn’t do that, dear.”

“But you control love? Can’t you make people do things?”

Eros looked aghast, “My dear I can’t  _ control _ anyone.”

“You controlled Uncle Zira.”

She flushed, “That was different.”

Adam was relentless, “How?”

“I panicked. I didn’t so much control him as take over his corporation. I wouldn’t have been able to keep it up long, anyway, and it was dreadfully wrong of me to do it at all, but I didn’t control  _ him _ . I can’t force anyone to do something they don’t wish to do. I have no control over free will.” Eros glanced back to the cottage. In the fading light Adam could see the slight shiver of Anathema’s protective ward just in front of the driveway.

“So, you aren’t influencing anyone in the house?”

“No! Well…” She looked sheepish, “Not intentionally at any rate. My presence tends to dissuade most arguments, but I am certainly not trying to force any feelings onto anyone else.”

“Huh.” Was all Adam said.

He could have sworn that Michael and the demon lady with the silver scales had hated each other but the last time he had been in the cottage they had been sitting side by side in Anathema’s study and Michael’s hand had been brushing over the demon’s scaled one as they studied the same note. And the Archangel and demon who were zipping Up and Down every few minutes kept blushing whenever they saw each other.

Maybe they were all just nervous.

The cottage door opened and Pepper popped her head out, raising her ink-stained hands as she waved at Adam but looked at Eros, “Anathema wants you back inside, she found something, apparently.”

With her message delivered, Pepper disappeared back into the warmth (and chaos) of the cottage. Eros stood up from the bench but instead of hurrying to the door she knelt in front of Adam.

“When all of this is over,” She said, “I promise I’ll answer more of your questions, alright?” 

Adam nodded, Eros smiled and hurried off to the door, but not before ruffling his and Dog’s hair fondly. Alone again Adam sighed. Dog, sat by his feet, suddenly started growling.

“What? What is it, Dog? You see something?”

Dog, of course, didn’t answer but he did stand up, his hackles raised, and his teeth bared as he stared directly at what looked like a fairly innocuous tree across the road. Adam squinted, willing his eyes to see through the gloom of the gathering dusk and he caught a glimpse of movement. He froze. It could be an animal of some kind but that little voice in the recesses of his mind shook its metaphorical head as it whispered _ danger, danger, danger _ . 

There was a snap of twigs as something moved away from the tree. Adam got a glimpse of a uniform with  _ International Express  _ written on it in smudged white letters before the figure retreated into the murky dark of the road. A shiver rolled down his spine and he retreated back into the house, Dog at his heels. 

A chill wind blew through the leaves of the garden.

***

Anathema smiled as Eros walked in. Zadkiel and Mammon had disappeared off to speak with Michael and Beelzebub and she was alone in the dining room with the notepad sat on the dining table full of a great deal more scribbling.

The Archangel had been very polite, his mere presence soothing the beginnings of Anathema’s stress-induced headache, and the Prince had been very civil, only insulting Zadkiel every few sentences. It was rather encouraging. 

Eros removed her new blue scarf and sat down beside her.

“You wished to see me?”

“I did. We were sorting through the prophecies when we came across one that didn’t make sense to any of us until I remembered what you said earlier.” Anathema said, pushing the notepad over to Eros.

Eros looked at her quizzically, “What did I say?”

“When I asked how old you were, you said you were older than Crowley. And, from what he’s told me, that makes you very, very old.”

Eros grinned, “You’re not the first to point that out tonight.”

Anathema found herself smiling back, “We found this prophecy and I was wondering if you could interpret who exactly Agnes is referring to?”

Eros glanced down at the notepad, “Prophecy number 4331. ‘At which hour the celestial f'rce is align'd once m're, seeketh the eldest child of exist’nce.’”

Eros frowned, “That would be in reference to my Brother, Abyss.”

Anathema squinted down at the prophecy, “Your brother is the Abyss?”

“Well, it isn’t his True Name, but yes. He is the embodiment of the void and he was the First out of all of us.” Eros said, starting to sound a little wistful, “If your Agnes is asking us to search for him that must surely mean he knows something about the murders.”

Anathema nodded, “Can you… err… contact him? Try to find out what he knows?”

Eros’ face fell, “I… I cannot. I cannot reach him. I have tried many, many times but it is like my Siblings no longer exist. Although if that was the case the results would be utterly cataclysmic.”

Anathema’s eyes widened, “I’m sorry, what?”

“We’re fundamental to the state of reality, Anathema. True, if one of my younger Siblings perished, the Universe could still keep existing, just terribly malformed, but if Time was destroyed? Or Abyss? It would rend reality itself asunder.”

Anathema shuddered, “So your siblings still exist, you just can’t reach them?”

“As far as I can tell, yes.”

Anathema opened her mouth to reply when Adam came running in.

“Adam? Is something wrong?”

The young ex-Antichrist shuddered and glanced behind him, “I-I saw something weird outside.”

Anathema was on her feet instantly, “Show me.” She grabbed a scarf from a nearby chair and followed Adam back outside, shivering as the cool evening air hit her face. The sun had dipped below the horizon now and the sky was painted in watercolour streaks of red and purple, slowly sinking into a deep dark blue dotted with grey clouds. It was beautifully eerie and utterly quiet.

Adam crunched forward into the garden and pointed at an old and gnarled chestnut tree on the other side of the road, half-hidden in the gloom of the evening.

“There. I saw him over there.”

Anathema frowned, “Him?”

Adam nodded, “The delivery man. The one who took Uncle Zira’s sword after I ended the Apocalypse. He was behind the tree and ran away when I saw him.”

Anathema raised her eyebrows incredulously, “Wait here, I’ll see if Aziraphale or the others sensed anything out of the ordinary.” She hurried back inside; Eros quick to follow. Aziraphale and Crowley were still in the living room and Beelzebub had joined them, they were arguing over some sort of binding spell and whether or not souls were involved. Well, more accurately,  _ Crowley _ and Beelzebub were arguing and Aziraphale just looked faintly exasperated. He perked up when he saw Anathema.

“Oh, hello dear, did you need something? I’m afraid we haven’t found anything quite yet-”

“Have any of you sensed something weird?” Anathema blurted out.

All three celestials stared at her. Aziraphale cleared his throat, “Sensed what?”

“Anything… out of the ordinary? Spooky? Vaguely ominous?”

Beelzebub and Crowley shared an amused look and Crowley was undoubtedly going to say something very witty about there being  _ several highly powerful demons in the house _ so of course something was  _ spooky _ , but Aziraphale cut him off with a frown.

“Now that you mention it dear, there has been an odd feeling lately. And it definitely isn’t the demonic presence.” He added as an afterthought, silencing Crowley again and making the Serpent pout in an entirely undemonic way.

A sudden gust of wind interrupted Anathema’s planned reply and she heard the front door bang open. She groaned, “Oh  _ bugger _ .” 

Leaving the trio looking rather concerned she ran into the hall and nearly knocked over Eros.

“Anathema?”

“Oh, oh sorry!”

Eros smiled, “It’s quite alright. But I found something and it… well it troubled me.”

Anathema felt the icy pit in her belly deepen, “What’s got you worried?”

Eros held out the notepad, “This.”

Written on the page in Anathema’s own scratchy writing was one of the prophecies. Edging forward to the door she squinted at it.

“Prophecy number 4411,” She murmured under her breath. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Adam outside walking over to the gate. A small figure stood there, and Anathema was just able to see that it was Maria, Pepper’s little sister, she must have come over to bring her sister back home.

“‘Dearest Anathema, doth not, und'r any circumstance, removeth thy protective charms from thine dwelling. F'r it beest all that keepeth both thine and thy, m'rtal and imm'rtal, 'mongst the living’…” She trailed off, feeling an icy chill spill down her spine. The wind blowing through the door was harsh, more biting than before, and something felt terribly, terribly  _ wrong _ .

Eros pushed past her and it took all of Anathema’s strength to stay standing. Near panicking she stumbled out of the door after her. Adam was reaching over to Maria who was reaching back but something was dreadfully amiss. Maria looked sick, her usually chubby brown cheeks were drawn in and she seemed to be swaying slightly.

“ **_Adam_ ** !” Eros shrieked, a pair of luminous and absolutely gargantuan golden wings spraying from her back and illuminating the dim garden in holy light. Adam jerked his hand back to look at Eros and Maria lunged.

And  _ rebounded off the ward _ …

That shouldn’t have been possible! The ward prevented the entry of hostile supernatural beings, it had no effect on humans, especially not  _ children _ .

Adam scrambled back from Maria, running back to Eros, who was staring at the little girl with an unreadable expression.

Maria blinked slowly and then Anathema realised what was so wrong. The little girl’s eyes were jet black, no white to be seen, and they didn’t even reflect the golden light emanating from Eros’ wings despite them being bright enough to emulate a nice sunny day.

Anathema heard crunching footsteps behind her, and she turned just in time to see Pepper standing at the forefront of the Them, with Aziraphale and Crowley bringing up the rear. 

Pepper stared at her sister incredulously, “’Ria?”

Maria ignored her; all of her attention focused on Eros. The wind somehow grew even colder and Anathema watched in shock as the grass by Maria’s feet began to curl and freeze.

“ _ Love. _ ”

The voice was like a thousand glaciers cracking and spilling into bottomless crevasses. It made the very ground shake and Anathema was suddenly a lot less sure of the strength of the ward that kept the little girl from crossing over into the garden. 

Eros shuddered, her wings stretching and shivering, but she seemed incapable of speech. Maria placed a hand on the barrier and the flesh there began to smoke as the ward repelled the weight. Pepper made a horrified noise but she, along with everyone else, was frozen in place.

Then Maria smiled and Anathema had never been so scared in all her life. That smile in a human face was just  _ wrong _ , it was as if marionette strings were pulling the flesh of her six-year-old face into what the puppeteer thought a smile ought to be. It was too wide, and it certainly didn’t reach the black pits of her eyes. She leaned forward, the glow of Eros’ wings illuminating the sickly pallor of her face, and the air seemed to still altogether. It was almost as if some ancient horror had turned its full attention to the small warded garden in Tadfield and had commanded time itself to stutter to a halt.

“ _ So good to see you again, Sister. _ ” Said the voice. It came from Maria’s mouth, but it sounded like it came from every direction at once. Eros’ eyes widened and she took a shaky step back just as the air warmed and Maria collapsed.

The little girl was dead before she hit the floor.

  
  


* * *

_ 1 _ _ Unless it was to do the dishes or tidy his room, his mother was almost always telling him twice. Although it really was perplexing how her son’s room looked like a derelict warzone one minute—complete with overgrown plants thanks to Crowley—and the next it was cleaner than… well something very clean. All the while Adam hardly seemed to have moved from the bed except to turn to the next page of that odd New Aquarian Digest magazine that the lovely, if slightly strange, Miss Device had given him for that week. _

_ 2 _ _ It must be noted that Aziraphale did not think of himself as a hoarder. He was an esteemed collector, thank you. His books were kept in tip top condition on pristine shelves, they were certainly not scattered about like laundry, and definitely not dog-eared. If Anathema weren’t a human facing the impossibility of the world ending yet again, Aziraphale might have felt a tad insulted on the books’ behalf. _

_ 3 _ _ Michael moving rather stiffly and avoiding Dagon like the demon carried a particularly virulent form of plague. _

_ 4 _ _ It had already failed to contain the awesome power of Eros returning to this plane of existence and it would be thrice damned if it let a little thing like containing the combined raw power of the most powerful beings in the Universe get in its way. _

_ 5 _ _ It was the middle of Autumn and as much as Eros enjoyed the lovely aesthetic Lailah had designed for her, she was hardly going to freeze for her fashion. So, she had ditched the black dress for a more appropriate pair of jeans, blue t-shirt, and a tartan jumper. Crowley was horrified. Aziraphale was delighted. _

_ 6 _ _ Aziraphale, Crowley, the Them, Adam, and Beelzebub all accepted, naturally, (although Beelzebub also nicked the sugar bowl) but, oddly, so did Zadkiel and Leviathan. _

_ 7 _ _ He somehow doubted his knowledge of basic French and ability to do a very Spanish-sounding ‘Oh lay’ would help all that much when translating ancient texts. _

_ 8 _ _ Sarathiel and Berith had taken to following the Them about the house just to make sure the odd human children didn’t do anything weird. Neither being had any experience with looking after children but they were both fairly sure the little creatures were trouble magnets and neither wanted to face the wrath of the Antichrist should one of his little mortal friends get hurt. Accidentally or otherwise. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think its safe to say we are firmly en route to climax city.  
> Angst, blood, and death await.
> 
> Hooo boy...
> 
> Tomorrow- Eros is absolutely FURIOUS and we finally travel to Babylon.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, comments and kudos are, as always, very welcome and much appreciated.


	24. The Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The murderer is revealed, Adam is angry, and we finally travel to Babylon.

The garden was silent.

A cool breeze fluttered through the remaining leaves of the trees, the currents making Maria’s little pink coat twitch.

“ **_NO_ ** !” Pepper’s shriek broke the silence as she rushed forward. Eros caught her after just a few steps. She struggled against still-glowing arms; tears streaked down both her own and the Queen of Hell’s face, glowing gold in the light that bathed the frosted plants and frozen audience.

Anathema swallowed, “My God…”

Aziraphale moved towards the barrier tentatively, as if moving through a dream, crouching just behind its protective field to where most of Maria lay within its confines. Gently, with the ease of a practiced doctor, he placed his fingers on little Maria’s neck and held them there.

The seconds felt like hours as everyone waited with bated breath.

Just as slowly as before, Aziraphale stood up.

“Angel?” Crowley said, his glasses gone, revealing his wide golden eyes, “Is she…?”

Aziraphale stepped over to Pepper, the girl still protesting weakly against Eros’ grip. He knelt before her.

“My dear, I am so sorry.”

Pepper made another anguished whimper, but all the fight seemed to have seeped out of her. With a quiet moan she slid to her knees and ended up cradled in Aziraphale’s arms. Eros let her go, she didn’t seem to know what else to do.

A low creak echoed through the silent garden and Anathema turned to see Beelzebub stick their head out of the cottage door.

“What’zz going on?” They asked as they wandered over, the rest of the Princes and remaining Archangels following in their wake. Their blue eyes flickered over to where Pepper lay weeping into Aziraphale’s chest and then to the small, colourful lump half-hidden in dark shadow.

“Shit…”

Another sound caught the gathering’s attention, but Anathema felt only dread when Eros’ wings spread wide, casting a feathery net over everyone in the garden in an unmistakably protective gesture. A hand clasped her own and Anathema started only to see Newt stood beside her, his face uncharacteristically sombre.

A twig snapped somewhere in the undergrowth and something detached itself from the oily shadow of the trees, slinking over until the light from Eros’ wings illuminated it’s face.

It was eerily odd to see such a normally cheery uniform caked with mud and specks of blood and worn by what seemed a corpse. The delivery man cocked his head to the side as he watched them, his eyes the exact same bottomless black as Maria’s had been. His roving gaze stopped when it reached Aziraphale, the angel drew Pepper in closer but glared back defiantly.

Movements slow but deliberate, almost mechanical, the delivery man reached into his mud-streaked bag and withdrew a filthy oblong parcel. He tossed it across the barrier, and it landed with a soft thud near Aziraphale. Eyes wide, the angel reached one-handed over to the package and untied the muddy string that held the brown paper together.

The stained wrapping gave way to reveal a glittering sword.

The delivery man chuckled, a dry, harsh noise that sounded like it was an effort to draw the necessary air into his lungs.

“You’ll need it.” His voice was just as desolate as his laugh and several lines of dark blood spilled down his chin from his cracked lips.

Eros took a step forward.

“ **_LEAVE_ ** .” She hissed, her voice echoing the thundering power of a waterfall and the crackle of lightning. The delivery man didn’t even flinch and simply turned away. A step before descending into the abyss of the night he turned back.

His eyes found Beelzebub’s and Anathema saw the remaining colour drain from the demon’s face.

A cruel smile curved the corpse’s lips.

“Take heart, Prince,” He croaked, his voice nowhere near human, “You will see your beloved soon enough.”

With that, he shuffled off.

The only sound in the garden was Pepper’s whimpered sniffles. Despite the brightness of Eros’ wings, the gloom refused to dissipate, sinking around the edges of the barrier like a malevolent oil.

Eros growled, a low, powerful sound that had Anathema shaking despite the relative warmth of the air.

“Everyone inside.  **_NOW!_ ** ”

There was a flurry of movement and Anathema felt herself being dragged back to the cottage by her arm.

Just before the cottage door closed behind Crowley, she spotted movement amongst the trees as silhouette after silhouette shuffled in an endless tide towards the house, outlined in their multitude by the cold light of the moon and distant stars.

***

Crowley tried not to shudder.

That  _ thing _ … it had made his skin crawl just looking at it.

Eros, her wings still very much out but pulled tightly against her back, was agitated. She almost looked like she wanted to pace the corridor, her wings twitching, and hands clenched tightly by her sides. Abruptly, she turned to Anathema.

“Where is your seal of protection?”

Anathema blinked and swallowed audibly, “In the living room, under the rug.”

Eros stalked off and everyone, following some sort of basic survival instinct, trailed after her. Crowley didn’t quite know why, maybe it was only because on some fundamental level she was much more powerful than them all combined, but he found himself too shaken to care. His hand found Aziraphale’s and squeezed, Aziraphale squeezed back.

In the living room, Eros miracled the rug away to reveal a complex circle of runes etched into the floorboards. It was a good spell, one of the best mortal ones Crowley had ever come across in fact, and he could feel the strands of magic tying the spell to the barrier as clearly as he could feel Aziraphale’s hand in his own. Eros placed her palm in the circle’s centre and the etchings glowed a brilliant, blinding white for a split second before fading back to scratches. Crowley immediately felt the wards outside harden, the magic sustaining them increasing in power tenfold, the strings tightening into ropes. 

Eros sighed, “That should do it.”

Michael stepped forward and Crowley could almost see the tension in the Archangel’s shoulders, “Do  _ what _ ? What the  _ fuck _ did we just see?”

Eros glanced at her before looking to Newt, “Take the children to the kitchen. They have been through enough today as it is.”

Adam looked stunned, “But I want to help!”

The grimace on Eros’ face softened slightly, “I know you do, but please, Adam, you can help by protecting your friends. They need you right now.  _ Pepper _ needs you right now.”

Newt herded the kids away, Adam casting one last glance back at her before rounding the corner. The moment they disappeared Eros slumped; every muscle taut with exhaustion. Aziraphale looked like he wanted to step forward but every instinct in Crowley told him not to let go of the angel’s hand, and he’d be damned again if he did.

“Eros, what happened out there? Who was that?”

Eros looked at the angel and, for the first time, Crowley could truly see her. Centuries of pain clouded her ancient eyes and they looked so, so tired.

So alone.

So afraid.

She sighed, a bone-chillingly weary exhale.

“That was Abyss. That was my Brother.”

Half the room stiffened with a new tension. Crowley himself felt the bottom of his stomach give out. Unbidden, the memory of the Council Chamber deep in Hell resurfaced.

_ ‘we might as well give up if they somehow convince Abyss to join them’ _

He hoped she had just been exaggerating.

The Archangels looked around them, confused at the sudden ripple of fear.

Michael raised her eyebrows incredulously, “Abyss? Your brother is the void? Empty space?”

Eros sighed and sank into a nearby armchair, her wings disappearing into her back, “He is my oldest Brother. In the Beginning he was the first being that ever existed, I was the fifth. Consequently, he is also the most powerful of all of us, and the most stubborn.”

Anathema surprised everyone by stepping forward, her wringing hands betraying her shattered nerves, “Are you sure? You said it’s been a while since you saw him last, could it be someone else?”

Eros shook her head, “I know my Brother. That was his voice. That was his aura. It was him.”

Crowley exhaled sharply, “So what do we do? Wait around for him to kill us, too?”

Eros bit her lip, her voice etched with a deep misery, “I don’t know. For him to have done this… to have gone this far and resort to heartless  _ murder _ … I don’t know what he will do. Though it seems he has been doing this for a very long time.”

“How do you know?” Asked Anathema.

Eros sighed, “Erebus. The name signed on the instructions. In Greek mythology Erebus was a primordial deity, the very personification of darkness and shadow born from the void. He was also the brother of the Greek god Eros. It appears my Brother has also been the one manipulating Heaven and Hell for thousands of years.”

Beelzebub buzzed angrily, “So that’zz it? Thizz fucking monzzter killzz uzzz off one by one and we can’t do anything to stop him?”

Eros shrugged, “We’d have to find him first.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed, “Find him? Isn’t he controlling that army out there?”

Eros nodded, “He is. But he isn’t here.” She didn’t clarify further; Crowley wasn’t sure he even wanted her to.

Anathema gasped, a small quiet sound but one filled with sudden hope, “The prophecies! Agnes must have seen this!”

The heavy sense of despair that had been building around the gathering, thick with tension, lifted slightly. Some light returned to Eros’ eyes, the rekindling of a small desperate hope. Anathema flipped through the notebook in her hand, muttering under her breath, she was nearing the end of her notes when she inhaled sharply.

“Prophecy number 4785.” She said aloud, “‘Seeketh the Tow’r amid the ruins of Her destruction, for that is where the void awaits.’”

Eros’ brow furrowed, “A ruined tower?”

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s grip on his hand tighten. The angel turned to look at him, a familiar glow in his eyes. One of sudden understanding.

“Babylon,” He said, to the room at large, “The Tower of Babel. Abyss is hiding in the ruined Tower of Babel.”

Everyone but Eros looked surprised. Eros’ brow just kitted tighter, “Babylon. Isn’t that the city God destroyed?”

Crowley nodded, “Yep, back when She took an active interest in humanity.”

Eros blinked slowly, “So where is this Tower?”

The gathering shifted uncomfortably. Beelzebub answered for them, “No one knows. The city’s location was forgotten millennia ago.”

Michael nodded along with them, “The Almighty gave no explicit orders against returning but the message was still clear.”

The mood threatened to sour again until Crowley cleared his throat, “We know where it is. Aziraphale and I went back after the fireworks to rescue a few stragglers, if I recall correctly.”

Aziraphale flushed but said nothing.

Eros almost smiled, “So you could take us?”

Crowley licked his suddenly dry lips, “I mean… yeah we could. But didn’t you say your Brother was stupid powerful? What good would fighting him do?”

The gleam in Eros’ eyes was almost manic as she stood from the chair, “My Brother may be powerful, but he is still  _ my  _ Brother. I can reason with him, I’m sure.”

“And if you can’t?” Anathema asked.

Eros frowned, “He may be the most powerful of my Siblings, but he isn’t alone. My Sister Time could stop him, or Justice, or Wrath. If we find him, I know I’ll find the rest of my family, and I cannot believe they would condone this… this  _ slaughter _ .”

Michael grimaced, “Your Brother is a  _ murderer _ . How do you know your other siblings haven’t joined him?”

Eros nearly glared, “My Siblings embody their names. Can you honestly tell me  _ Hope _ would commit murder? Or Wisdom? It goes against their very nature. No, if we find my Brother and reason fails us, they are our best hope.”

Her eyes were drawn to Aziraphale’s sword still clutched in the angel’s hand. From the way Aziraphale jumped upon seeing it, he too had forgotten he had been holding it. The weapon shimmered even in the low light of the living room lamp and Crowley remembered how bright it had been when set aflame.

Eros narrowed her eyes, “However, it usually pays to be overcautious. If my Brother proves unreasonable it may take time to reach my Siblings, time which he could use to go on the offensive.” She looked up at Beelzebub and Michael, “Both sides must prepare for war. If it comes down to a fight I am better suited to tackling my Brother but he may have provided himself with allies and if that is the case I do not doubt he will find some way to assault Heaven and Hell, if those realms fall we will have lost.”

There was a tentative knock on the living room door and Newt stepped in, a blocky mobile phone still in his hand. He looked ill.

“Anathema, Shadwell just called. The total people missing surpassed one million two hours ago.”

Eros sighed, “Beelzebub. Michael. You know what to do.”

***

Pepper was quiet. 

She was never quiet.

Adam refused to admit he was afraid, he wasn’t. He was angry. Maria was  _ family _ .

No one hurt his family.

He, Wensleydale, and Brian had all taken turns sitting by Pepper, occasionally giving her a brief hug before she shrugged them off. That was normal, that was Pepper, it made Adam smile if only a little. He could tell something was wrong now. Dog refused to leave her side and had ended up standing guard—growling low at every little creak in the house with his tiny hackles raised, terrier teeth bared, and hellfire aglow in his eyes.

Tadfield itself felt too quiet, and not in a pleasantly peaceful way, it was like a malevolent shadow was hanging above his head where it had no right to be. 

The living room had been taken over by Eros as a sort of planning room and every attempt Adam made to enter was gently rebuffed by either Aziraphale or Crowley.

Adam couldn’t find the space in his heart to get angry at them, or at Eros, or at the many angels and demons currently deciding the fate of the world without him. No. 

He was angry at the monster.

He had heard its name through the door, he knew it had been Eros’ brother, and that angered him even more. Family was meant to be family. Brothers and sisters weren’t meant to fight, they weren’t meant to start wars, they weren’t meant to hurt each other. He wondered if this was what his teacher had meant about history inevitably repeating itself.

Adam was certainly not religious but from what he could remember of his many conversations with Anathema, super powerful siblings fighting always ended badly.

Wensleydale was sitting with Pepper, quietly reading to her in his soft voice, and Brian was helping Newt and Anathema make her some soup; so, Adam went upstairs. Downstairs was too loud, too busy, and what made it frustrating was that he couldn’t join in. He  ~~ was ~~ used to be the Antichrist! He could be useful! He could help!

Gritting his teeth, he slammed his fist into the wall and hissed as his knuckles met with immovable brick.

“Careful, you’ll break it.”

Adam looked up, surprised.

Beelzebub sat on Anathema’s bed, watching him intently.

Adam felt a wry smile curve his lips, “My hand or the wall?”

Beelzebub shrugged, “Either.”

Adam wandered over to the bed and sat beside the Prince, “Shouldn’t you be down there with them?”

Beelzebub shrugged again, “The other Princezzz know what to do. Preparing for war izzzn’t exactly new for uzz.”

Adam nodded, absently, “So you’re hiding?”

Beelzebub scowled but then sighed, “Yeah.”

A long silence followed. Adam could hear talking from downstairs and he could smell the ozone in the air as people teleported between dimensions. He struggled with the anger eating away at his insides.

“They’re looking for the monster, aren’t they?”

Beelzebub looked away; they nodded.

Adam squinted, “You’re scared of it.” When Beelzebub didn’t respond Adam continued, “I am too. But I think I’m more angry than scared.”

That got their attention. Shifting slightly on the bed the Prince turned to face him, “About the little girl?”

Adam’s gut twisted but he nodded, “Yeah, Pepper’s little sister. She was six, she liked playing with us sometimes.”

He didn’t look at them, but he could feel Beelzebub’s pity, stunted as it was. It only made him angrier.

“You’re angry, too. I can feel it. The monster killed Gabriel, didn’t he?”

Beelzebub flinched and Adam nearly threw up when the sharp spike of grief hit him, but he forced himself through it until the queasy feeling settled. He caught Beelzebub’s gaze and from their widening eyes he guessed his own had flashed red once more. For a moment he struggled with the power surging under his skin.

In a growl that sounded more like one of Dog’s than anything human, Adam said, “Make him pay for it.”

***

A few hours later, when the door to the living room finally opened, only a handful of celestials were left. Adam walked in cautiously, his anger still bubbling dangerously beneath his skin. Two new demons and an angel stood off to the side, in deep conversation with Aziraphale, Crowley, and Dagon. Beelzebub, Belphegor, and Asmodeus stood next to Michael, Uriel, and Zadkiel, obviously waiting for something. The angels were back in their armour and Adam could see weapons strapped to their sides; in comparison the demons didn’t look armed at all, but Adam wasn’t fooled.

The moment he stepped in, Eros moved away from the new group and attempted a smile. It was a tired thing, strung out and weary, but Adam could see she was trying so he offered one back.

“Adam, dear,” She gestured to Dagon and the three new celestials, “This is Dagon, Hastur, Ligur, and Israfiel. They’ll be staying here to protect you.”

Adam felt his gut clench at that. A small vicious part of him was furious that Eros thought he needed protection, but that part had been conquered in a field by his friends not more than three months ago. Now, he could see his Aunt’s actions for what they were.

Reinforcements.

He could defend himself perfectly well and Dog was still a Hellhound, for all his yappier aspects, but he also had to protect his friends and he couldn’t do that on his own, not without risking accidentally losing control.

So, he smiled more gratefully, “Thank you, Auntie.”

A genuine smile blossomed on Eros’ face for a brief moment before it was eclipsed by worry again.

“Listen to them, Adam,” She said, “If they tell you to hide, you hide, alright? If you feel something strange you tell them, okay?”

Adam nodded, “Yeah, okay. But what about our parents? They aren’t here, they could be in danger.”

Adam thought of Pepper’s mother and he had to bite his lip to clamp down on the anger this time.

Eros sighed, “There’s nothing you can do for them right now. Your job is to keep yourself and your friends safe, can you do that?”

Adam nodded again and Eros embraced him in a chaste hug. This close he could smell wildflowers in her hair and with it an undercurrent of panicky fear, threaded through with a steely determination.

And anger.

So, so much anger.

His own resonated with it, a burning thrum deep in his chest.

“Be careful, Adam,” Eros whispered in his ear, “Wrath is useful, but it will destroy you if you do not control it.”

Adam tensed but he managed to force down his own fury until he could breathe again. Eros let him go and gently kissed his forehead.

“Be careful, nephew.”

Adam kissed her back on the cheek, he tasted honey, “You too, Auntie. Love you.”

The surprise on Eros’ face was as welcome as it was tender.

“I love you too, my dear.”

With one last peck on the cheek, she moved off, and Adam made his way over to his Uncles. Aziraphale noticed him first and he dragged Crowley over with him. Adam couldn’t help but notice the sword hanging from the angel’s belt in an intricately patterned scabbard and how incongruous it looked alongside the rest of his Uncle’s soft clothes.

Aziraphale smiled at him, “How are you, dear boy?”

Adam tried to shrug but he didn’t quite pull it off.

Crowley sighed and took off his glasses, his golden eyes dark with something Adam couldn’t place, “Pepper doin’ okay?”

Adam shook his head, “No, I don’t know what to do. She won’t come back to us.”

Aziraphale made a sympathetic noise and placed a warm hand on Adam’s shoulder, “You being there is more than enough, Adam, she needs her friends to help her through this. The first few days are the most difficult, but she’ll pull through.”

Adam frowned, “Couldn’t you… couldn’t you miracle her better? Angels are good at healing stuff, right?”

Crowley shook his head, “Some stuff can’t be helped that way. Best we’d be able to do is remove those feelings entirely but that wouldn’t help her in the long run.”

Adam deflated slightly, “Oh…”

Aziraphale sighed, “Just be there for her, my dear, make sure she knows you’re there and that she isn’t alone in this.”

“’S worse if you’re alone,” Crowley muttered, almost to himself.

Adam nodded, “I’ll keep her company then. Maybe we could watch a movie or something.” He glanced past his Uncles at the group of four behind them, “Do other demons watch movies, Uncle Crowley?”

Crowley chuckled, “Eros ordered ‘em to protect you and everyone else in the cottage, s'long as it doesn't endanger you they’ll do whatever you want them to do.”

Aziraphale huffed a faintly exasperated  _ That's not entirely true, dear _ whilst Crowley smirked. Adam would have laughed at the warmly familiar scene before him if he couldn’t still feel that ominous mass around and above him and the anger still bubbling away in his gut.

“So, you’re going to stop the monster?” He asked, glancing back at the assembled Archangels and Princes, standing just far enough apart for it to be noticeable.

Crowley grimaced, “Yeah. Hopefully there won’t be any actual fighting, but we’ll try.”

Adam felt a smidgen of fear collect with the anger. He looked up at his Uncles, “Come back alive, please? I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

Aziraphale pulled him into a hug and Adam took comfort in the familiar feel of the ancient jacket and the warm smell of old books. Crowley got hugged next and Adam breathed in the scent of smoke and sandalwood like an incense. When he let go, both Uncles were looking at him fondly.

Aziraphale patted his shoulder again, “Don’t worry, my dear, we'll be back in a jiffy.”

Crowley chuckled, although it sounded slightly forced, and he ruffled Adam’s hair, “Yeah, you won't even miss us, troublemaker.”

“Aziraphale.” 

Adam turned to see Eros, still in her tartan jumper and jeans, stood by the motley group of celestials. Aziraphale and Crowley gave him one last affectionate smile before walking over to her.

Eros looked at them closely, “Ready?”

Aziraphale inhaled and exhaled slowly and grasped Crowley’s hand in his own, “Ready.”

In a blink, they were gone.

Adam suddenly felt very, very lonely despite the fact he wasn’t even alone in the living room. Moving slowly, he made his way to the window and peered between the curtains. The moon was very bright in the sky and each star was a brilliant pinprick against the velvet black of the night. A few scraggy clouds scurried across the black ocean but other than that it was a clear night.

Except it wasn’t.

The light from the window spilled into the garden, illuminating the plants a pale yellow, but the light, despite hitting the barrier, did not pass through it. Beyond the barrier the night was all consuming. Inky blackness clawed at the shimmering edges like oil-slick water, ever-shifting, and as graceful as ribbons. He couldn’t see through the blackness, but Adam imagined he could see shapes in there, monstrous shapes, without pity or mercy.

Swallowing hard, he closed the curtains.

***

Crowley landed beside Aziraphale and had to blink hard before the blurry blobs before him resolved into coherent shapes. The half-buried bones of Babylon lay scattered around them, the tallest lump of melted marble standing just shy of ten feet.

A crunching noise behind them had Aziraphale clutching automatically for his sword and Crowley preparing to grab a nearby fist-sized lump of marble, but it was only Eros. She stepped out from behind a shattered pillar, glancing around herself curiously.

“Her temper didn’t mellow very much, did it?” She murmured, a single pale finger tracing the worn burns etched deep into the pillar’s surface. Mist spilled from her mouth as she spoke, and Crowley finally realised what felt so odd.

“ _ FUCK _ , it’s fucking freezing!” His own breath came out as translucent vapour as he rubbed his numbing arms, the fog clouding up his glasses. Irritated, he miracled them clean.

The sun was high in the sky and Crowley estimated it to be noon, which made the current chill extremely confusing. Aziraphale shuddered beside him and miracled himself warmer, radiating a little heat into the frigid air, heat that was soon stolen away.

More crunching noises made themselves known only to reveal the six Princes and Archangels who stared about themselves with undisguised awe. Beelzebub shivered and stepped towards Aziraphale, “Why the fuck did we get zzeparated? I thought you two knew where you were going.”

Crowley groaned, “It’s been a while. Besides, this place is warded up to its bloody eyeballs. I’m more surprised we managed to get here in one piece at all.”

Eros stepped onto what had once been a street and looked north, “I take it that used to be the Tower?”

The Tower of Babel stretched into the sky like a warped marble needle. With the cold sun glinting off its still-shiny façade and the faint but intricate mosaics at its base, even Crowley had to admit it was breath-taking. It also felt  _ wrong _ . He remembered the Tower as pulsing with Heavenly power, a beacon of holiness on Earth before churches became mainstream. Now it stood cold and empty, looking down on its broken city with hollow eyes. Every instinct in Crowley screamed at him to run, to escape this literally God-forsaken place devoid of life and warmth, and slink back into Aziraphale’s arms in the angel’s cosy bookshop.

Eros began walking down the desolate road towards the Tower and Crowley found himself following. He told himself he was only following Aziraphale, only keeping his angel safe, but a small part of him also hungered for justice. Crowley didn’t take human life lightly, the lives of human children least of all, so he followed, gripping Aziraphale’s hand tightly. The closer the Tower came the colder the air grew until Crowley saw actual frost begin to form in the sandy shadows of the marble bones.

By the time they reached the Tower’s courtyard the ground was completely frozen over and Crowley was almost continuously keeping himself warm with miracles. Aziraphale was gripping the sheathed handle of his sword tightly and the demon’s hand even tighter. Crowley could practically  _ feel _ the angel’s fear reverberate through their connection. He wished he could offer comfort.

Two dark stains coloured the icy sand before the Tower’s sealed entrance and Zadkiel cautiously stepped forward, bowing to one knee to inspect the black and gold patches.

Eros glared at the Tower and Crowley felt her power pulse like the beat of a massive heart before all six of her wings released.

“ **_BROTHER_ ** !” She bellowed, her voice as deep as a canyon and shuddering with thunder.

It echoed away into the city, leaving silence in its wake. The Princes shifted anxiously, and the Archangels drew their swords, all except for Zadkiel who was still frowning down at the two stains curiously.

Crowley licked his lips and the moisture froze in the air, Aziraphale drew his own sword and the flames roared to life along it’s blade.

A frozen wind blew through the courtyard and along with it came a chilling voice that seemed to come from every direction and echo in every shadow.

“ _ Sister… _ ” It hissed back, “ _ Still surrounded by your pets, I see _ .”

Eros glowered and her wings stretched out fully, offsetting the chill with a softly burgeoning warmth.

“Come out, Brother! Answer for what you have done!” She called, her voice still thick with power and fury.

The wind hissed, as if it were laughing.

“ _ I think not, Sister, this fight is hardly fair. _ ”

Crowley felt the ground shudder and suddenly the Tower didn’t feel so abandoned anymore. The air—still frigid—felt cloying and it sparked in his mouth.

The wind shivered, “ _ I think I shall even the odds. _ ”

The power spiked and Crowley barely had time to manifest his wings, let alone  _ think _ , before the Tower erupted into flames with such explosive force that he was slammed backwards into a marble pillar hard enough for it to crack.

Distantly he could hear the fire roar, screaming so loudly in the charged air that it overloaded his ears, and then he heard nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah cliffhangers!  
> Such wonderful little writing tools.
> 
> Honestly I found this chapter _really_ tricky to write and I'm not quite sure why. Probably because its a tiny bit filler, I suppose. But the rest are all pure story. Promise.
> 
> Tomorrow, we discover a bit more about Crowley's past.  
> (Hint: prepare for the hurt)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, comments and kudos are very much appreciated :)


	25. Pleasant Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see Heaven as it once was and who Crowley used to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: quite a graphic description of an angel Falling. Ye have been warned.

_ Zadkiel smirked as he turned around, “Back again so soon?” _

_ Raphael rolled his eyes, “You try making three neutron stars without burning yourself, then we’ll talk.” _

_ Zadkiel winced sympathetically and patted the soft cot. Raphael walked over and sat himself down onto the very familiar surface, taking comfort in the soft cream of the sheets. Hissing slightly, he drew up his long, slightly charred sleeves and Zadkiel frowned. Gently, the younger Archangel lifted one of the limbs into a better light. _

_ “You never said it was  _ **_that_ ** _ bad, Raphael. What in the Almighty’s name did you  _ **_do_ ** _?” _

_ Raphael smirked, “Like I said. Three neutron stars does not an unburned Archangel make.” _

_ Zadkiel whistled low, “I thought you were kidding.  _ **_Three_ ** _?” _

_ “Uh-huh. Just finished the last of them not two hours ago, it was a right feisty one, too.” _

_ Zadkiel waved his hand and miracled Raphael’s sleeves short, peering critically at the seared and angry flesh of his forearms and biceps. His hands, for once, were not that bad, the arms having taken the brunt of the fledgling star’s rage, but the damage was still great enough for his palms to be leaking small drops of Grace. _

_ Zadkiel tutted, “Grace-burns again, I take it?” _

_ Raphael nodded, “Yeah. The first two went pretty well, just the usual burns on the fingers, but the third star had a nasty temper. I wasn’t able to repel the energy properly and it recoiled.” _

_ Zadkiel sighed and shuffled off deeper into his nest-like infirmary. Raphael could hear the exasperated sighs even when his younger brother was out of sight. Zadkiel loved his infirmary, he, like the other Archangels, had been made for a singular purpose. Just as Gabriel was  _ **_Her_ ** _ Messenger and Michael  _ **_Her_ ** _ General, Zadkiel was _ **_Her_ ** _ Healer. Raphael himself had the official title of Lightbringer, though Zadkiel certainly enjoyed his profession a lot more than Raphael himself did. For one thing, he had yet to find the younger Archangel asleep at the job—something Raphael himself was often wont to do, though  _ **_She_ ** _ had never commented on it. _

_ “Honestly, brother,” Zadkiel muttered as he came bustling back with his arms full of soft cloth strips and little pot of some sort of ointment, “You make up half of my patient quota. Not even Wrath’s Seraphim come in here as often as you.” _

_ Raphael chuckled a bit dryly and held out his throbbing arms, “Yeah, well you can dodge Wrath, I’ve got to hold onto my stars and feed them energy. It doesn’t tend to end well if the star gets nervous.” _

_ “Nervous?” Zadkiel asked, as he dipped his fingers into the little pot of goldish ointment and began applying it to the outstretched limbs, “You speak as if they’re alive.” _

_ Raphael sighed in relief as the throbbing began to abate, the worst of the sting slowly being drawn out, “They are kind of alive. My Grace tends to give them a bit of a personality, you know? I mean, it's  _ **_my_ ** _ Grace, it’d be weird if they were boring.” _

_ Zadkiel hummed thoughtfully as he finished one arm and moved onto the other, “Ah, so that’s why you liked that one binary star so much.” _

_ Raphael nodded and sighed contentedly as Zadkiel finished both arms and washed his hands in a nearby font of holy water, “Yeah. Alpha Centauri was a special little thing. One half was very mellow, hardly burned my hands at all, the other was quite possibly the feistiest little thing I’ve ever made. Little thing could hardly sit still, kept lashing out. I think I had to come here twice before I could finish it.” _

_ Zadkiel nodded, “You did indeed. The star was marvellous.” _

_ Raphael smiled, “It was. I wasn’t sure they’d be able to orbit each other properly but the moment I pushed them together they clicked. I suppose it’s just ineffable.” _

_ Zadkiel chuckled, “Been speaking with Wisdom again, have you?” _

_ Raphael huffed, “So what if I have?” _

_ “Do you even know what ineffable means?” Zadkiel asked, dipping a strip of cloth in the holy water and gently wrapping it around one outstretched arm. _

_ Raphael scowled, “Of course I do.” _

_ “Right.” _

_ Raphael raised an eyebrow at his brother, “I do. I didn’t spend five days in the Library talking to Wisdom for nothing.” _

_ Zadkiel shook his head, clearly amused, as he moved onto the second arm with freshly soaked cloth strips, “Was this five-day trip before or after you, Love, and Faith decided it would be a great idea to paint Gabriel’s robes blue and dye his hair pink?” _

_ Raphael blushed, “I...Erm… After, I think.” _

_ Zadkiel chuckled, “He’s still furious, by the way, took Remiel ages to get the colour out of his hair and he had to have new robes made.” _

_ Raphael tried to hide his snigger, but failed rather miserably, and so attempted to change the topic, “How is Remiel? I haven’t seen them in ages.” _

_ Zadkiel hummed, wrapping some dry cloth around each arm to secure the first of the strips, “They spend most of their time with Gabriel. I think our brother’s considering settling down.” _

_ Raphael raised his eyebrows, “He’s really gonna tie the knot with them? They’ve been dancing around each other for ages.” _

_ “Yes, I know they have. Whilst you’ve been gallivanting about making stars, I’ve been stuck here listening to Gabriel fret for hours on end.” _

_ Raphael nearly choked on his own spit, “ _ **_Fretting_ ** _? Gabriel was actually  _ **_fretting_ ** _?” _

_ Zadkiel tugged the last anchoring strip tight and stood up to wash his hands in the font of holy water, he was smiling when he turned around, “Oh yes. Our brother was worried he was going too fast for them, if you can believe it. I can’t remember how many times I told him that they were just as eager as he was.” _

_ Raphael sighed and flexed his numbing arms, “Well, it is a big first step. I mean, he’s an Archangel and they’re a Cherub, bit of a power difference there.” _

_ Zadkiel chuckled again as he began smearing the same gold cream over the burns on Raphael’s palms, “You’ve clearly been out of the loop for too long. Remiel’s hardly a simple Cherubim anymore, they’re training with Wrath now. Gave Michael a real challenge for once, told me all about it when they were recovering.” _

_ Raphael smiled. He remembered Remiel well; the little black-haired Cherub was always somewhere in Gabriel’s vicinity, orbiting him like an excitable moon. They had been dancing around the issue of settling down together for so long it seemed surreal that Gabriel had finally decided on trying it. _

_ Zadkiel finished applying the cream and smiled himself, “So, what about you, brother? Anyone catching your eye?” _

_ Raphael and his spit nearly became mortal enemies again; Zadkiel laughed as he spluttered. _

_ Thankfully, he was saved from answering by the infirmary doors opening to admit two new arrivals. Zadkiel glanced over and bowed slightly as Temperance and Prudence walked in. Raphael, sat down as he was, just inclined his head in a show of respect. _

_ Temperance’s six iron wings were out, her feathers an utter mess as was her short blonde hair, she looked like she’d been caught in one of Jupiter’s storms. Prudence behind her had his own deep blue wings out, though they were in much better condition, and his shoulder-length brown hair didn’t resemble a crazed supernova. He also looked vaguely irritated. _

_ Zadkiel raised an eyebrow, “My Lady, what seems to be the problem?” _

_ Temperance giggled breathlessly, “Oh, nothing much Zadkiel. My Brother just thought it would be good if you checked on me.” _

_ Prudence guided her over to the cot opposite Raphael’s and sighed, “Wrath had another one of her tantrums.” _

_ Zadkiel nodded, “Ah. A bad one, was it?” _

_ Temperance shook her head, “Not especially. Short, fiery, but I’ve handled worse. Prudence just wanted to make sure I didn’t break anything.” _

_ Raphael whistled low, “Wouldn’t you feel something like that?” _

_ Prudence snorted, “No. Not since the Almighty made something called adrenaline. I’m not sure She’s got it quite right yet, Temperance still feels… what did you call it again?” _

_ “Jittery,” Temperance replied, “Like I really need to  _ **_move_ ** _ and do something quickly. It’s fantastic!” _

_ “And worrying,” Prudence added, disapproval evident in his slightly raised eyebrows, “So, Zadkiel, if you could just check her over, I’d be most grateful.” _

_ Zadkiel smiled, “Of course, my Lord, wait here a moment.” _

_ Leaving them alone, Zadkiel went off to refill the water font from some hidden fountain of the stuff in the midden that was his infirmary. Temperance watched him go and then turned her startling eyes on Raphael. He knew his own eyes were fairly special, gold wasn’t very common after all, but the eyes of the Lords and Ladies were something else entirely. Temperance’s irises were the same shiny iron as her wings, but they were also ringed with copper. Prudence, on the other hand, had bright turquoise ringed with light lilac. _

_ They were mesmerising, and Raphael had to remind himself not to stare. _

_ Temperance grinned, “Burned again, I take it?” _

_ Raphael groaned and flexed his hands experimentally. They didn’t sting anymore thanks to the creamy substance that Raphael, for the life of him, could never remember the name of. _

_ “Yep. Its not bad though, I’ve had worse. What about you? Wrath get any hits in?” _

_ Temperance bit her lip and furrowed her brow, concentrating, “Not that I remember, I managed to break through to her pretty quickly this time.” _

_ Prudence sighed, “Perhaps your influence is finally rubbing off on her. Lord knows mine isn’t.” _

_ Zadkiel came back, washed his hands in the refilled font, and started poking and prodding Temperance’s form under the robes. _

_ “Does anything hurt at all, my Lady?” He asked. _

_ Temperance frowned and flinched when Zadkiel prodded her lower back, “Yep.” _

_ Prudence raised an eyebrow, “It appears the adrenaline is wearing off, I do wish these bodies came with instructions.” _

_ Zadkiel tutted, apparently irritated with whatever he’d found, “Right, the third lumbar vertebrae appears to have been dislocated. Did Wrath manage to kick you at any point, or did you land particularly hard on something?” _

_ Temperance looked a little lost as she tried to think back, Prudence sighed, “Yes, she slammed into a pillar in the Western Courtyard when Wrath managed to throw her off.” _

_ Zadkiel nodded, “Makes sense, the back does appear to be bruising. Is Lady Wrath okay?” _

_ “As far as I could tell she was fine, Time took her to Abyss so she could cool off.” Prudence said, his tone still slightly irritated, “Can you heal my Sister, Zadkiel?” _

_ Zadkiel shrugged, “I can help reset the spine, but I can’t use any miracles on her, you know they don’t work. If you could get Love or Hope here it will go faster. And, before you do, could you help me take her to one of the private rooms? The procedure will be rather complex.” _

_ Prudence nodded and, taking one of Temperance’s arms, he helped her stand. Zadkiel moved to her other side to take the free arm and then appeared to remember that Raphael was still there. He smiled apologetically. _

_ “My apologies, brother. Can you wait a few hours?” _

_ Raphael shrugged, “S'pose I could. Not like I’ve got anything important to do.” _

_ At Zadkiel’s stricken look Raphael grinned, “Nah, it’s fine. Go on, I could use a break.” _

_ “Thank you,” Zadkiel said, relieved, as he moved off with Prudence further into the infirmary, Temperance dangling between them like some sort of limp doll. Raphael was left alone with his mummified arms, so he sighed and settled down to wait. _

_ In the grand scheme of things, a few hours was a mere blink of an eye. Creating and properly Shaping a star sometimes took years and years so a few hours should have been easy to endure. _

_ Patience was a virtue, after all. _

_ Except the Archangel Raphael had never really been all that patient. Faithful, certainly. Loyal, definitely. But patient? Not so much. _

_ Usually, when he was bored, Raphael preened his wings. He happened to get bored a lot and as such his six wings were the best kept in all of Heaven. Having his hands covered in numbing cream, however, did limit his ability to do much in the way of preening so he just released his wings for something to do instead. When he gazed behind him, he was pleased to see the tantrums of the stars hadn’t managed to sully the glimmering opalescent feathers. _

_ His moment of self-indulgent admiration was broken when the infirmary door opened once again. Raphael half expected one of the Seraphim to come toddling in having just suffered through a bout of Michael’s training, but he instead found himself grinning boyishly as Lucifer sauntered through, his short blond hair artfully tousled, and broad white wings tucked firmly against his back. _

_ Lucifer’s handsome face broke into a grin when he spotted Raphael, “Brother! Have the stars been at you again?” _

_ Raphael shrugged, “You could say that. I’d hug you but I’m a bit sticky at the moment.” _

_ “I can see that,” Lucifer chuckled, “You haven’t seen our little brother, have you? I was hoping to talk to him.” _

_ Raphael gestured a little stiffly to the corridor that led to the private wards, “Down there somewhere. I can give him a message if you like.” _

_ Lucifer smirked, “Best not. Gabriel would have a fit if you took his job as well as his dignity.” _

_ Raphael swelled a little indignantly himself, or tried to at least, “Hey, his dignity is just fine. He only had pink hair for a few hours. Hardly anyone saw him!” _

_ Lucifer laughed and sat down across from Raphael, where Temperance had been not five minutes before. _

_ “I’m not sure he sees it that way, brother, but I digress. I’ll catch Zadkiel later. I was actually hoping to get a chance to speak with you before you go haring off into the great unknown for another century.” _

_ Raphael smiled,"I can spare a few hours. What did you want to talk about?” _

_ Lucifer leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was sharing something deeply private and confidential, “Some of the other angels and I have started a… group. We’ve started having Doubts, things we need to ask the Almighty. I mean,” He looked to the ceiling and smiled, “We know  _ **_She_ ** _ has a Plan and all of this, all of our effort, is working towards the realisation of that Plan, but we’d like to know what our ultimate goal is, you know? Get a better grasp on what it is we’re meant to be doing.” _

_ Raphael raised an eyebrow, “You’re Questioning  _ **_Her_ ** _?” _

_ Lucifer grimaced, “If you want to call it that then I suppose we are. But we aren’t asking much. Look, wouldn’t you like to know why you make your stars? Wouldn’t you like to know why, out of all of us,  _ **_you're_ ** _ the one who has to bear all those burns?” _

_ Raphael bit his lip but said nothing. _

_ Lucifer pressed on, encouraged by his silence, “It’s not a very popular idea at the moment. Michael says we should just get on with our jobs and keep to our proper place, but I don’t understand how that’s fair. We’re  _ **_Her_ ** _ children, I’m  _ **_Her_ ** _ First, shouldn’t we get to know why we do what we do? To know all our work actually  _ **_means_ ** _ something?” _

_ Raphael sighed, “What do you want from me, Luci?” _

_ Lucifer smiled gently, “Like I said, the idea isn’t very popular right now. But if  _ **_you_ ** _ join us, we might get more angels on board with it.” _

_ Raphael frowned, “I’m hardly ever in Heaven, Luci, what difference could I possibly make?” _

_ Lucifer chuckled deeply and placed a warm hand on Raphael’s shoulder, “You give yourself too little credit, Raphael. You’re an  _ **_Archangel_ ** _! You rule over the Third Choir. If our brethren see you support me our numbers will grow, and we shall get our answers. So, will you help us?” _

_ Raphael grimaced. The pain in his healing arms was faint but such an injury was difficult to forget. Your own Grace lashing out and striking you, burning through your corporation’s flesh… it left scars; and not just those on the skin. _

_ This had hardly been the first time. There were billions of stars in the Universe, and he’d been burned over and over as each star struggled in his grip. After every burn Raphael had forced down the niggling Doubt in the back of his mind, he had refused to acknowledge it as if feigned ignorance would help him be rid of it. But it had persisted. _

_ Always. _

_ Whenever the Metatron gave him a new assignment, whenever the star he Created lashed out, whenever he had to inevitably return to Zadkiel to heal his corporation. _

_ Always it whispered, deep in the pit of his subconscious,  _ **_WHY?_ **

_ Why did this have to hurt? _

_ Why did he have to do this? _

_ Every time he pushed the thought down, dismissed his worries as ridiculous, they came back stronger. Hounding him deep into his work, into his sleep, into his dreams. _

_ It was exhausting. _

_ So, Raphael smiled, “Alright, Luci. Now how many of these meetings do I have to go to?” _

_ Lucifer laughed heartily and slapped Raphael’s shoulder, “Just a few, Raphael. All I need you to do is show your face, and after that you can go back to your stars. Sound good?” _

_ It sounded brilliant. They would get their answers, finally the whispering voice, the Doubt, would end. He could be free of it! _

_ Raphael paused, just for a moment, and then smiled, “Sure. I’ll see you there.” _

_ If things didn’t work out, he mused, as Lucifer sauntered back out with a much happier grin lighting up his perfect face, at least he’d get a longer break. _

_ There was always a silver lining to these things. _

***

_ Raphael shivered although he was not cold. _

_ The Grand Hall was filled with angels, but it was almost silent.  _

_ The Metatron stood atop his podium, wings spread wide, overlooking the congregation imperiously, the shadow of a sadistic smile crossing his craggy face. In a slow, grating monotone he read out the names of the damned. _

_ It had all gone wrong. Raphael had never meant for any of this to happen. _

_ It had come as a surprise, deep in the void Raphael had been busy Creating stars once more, Lucifer and his little group far from his mind as he Shaped a blue giant, gently coaxing it into accepting his Grace as it swelled and trying to ignore the burning sensation on his fingertips. Then he had felt it.  _

_ War. _

_ The conflict sent waves of rage across the void of space, the deaths those waves carried spearing at his heart like poisoned blades. The blue giant had exploded, its infancy ended abruptly, another casualty amongst many, Raphael had barely felt the fire as it washed over him. He certainly didn’t feel the burns sting as he flew home on wide trembling wings. _

_ Heaven had been chaos when he had arrived, it had felt horrible, like descending into a nightmare. But, just as suddenly as the conflict had begun, it ended. _

_ Violently. _

_ With Raphael on the losing side. _

_ He hadn’t even fought, he had simply shown up at the wrong moment, throwing himself between the combatants desperately, pleading with them for peace. And now, here he was, stood amongst a crowd of ten million, found guilty of Questioning the Almighty.  _

_ It was a guilt he could not deny, his Doubts had only increased when Lucifer had convinced him to join his group. And not a second had gone by since that day where he had not felt that Doubt grow in the back of his mind, gnawing relentlessly at his resolve. _

_ At first the meetings had been peaceful; more and more angels had joined. Lured in by Lucifer’s soft-spoken voice and careful reasonings. Even Remiel had been swept up by his charm and Raphael had heard that they had been planning to convince Gabriel into joining them. It had all been going so well. _

_ Until Earth. _

_ Until  _ **_humanity_ ** _. _

_ Lucifer had been furious when the Almighty had revealed the part the angels would play in the next stage of  _ **_Her_ ** _ Plan. How they would have to cater to these new, wingless, powerless, children. The Questions had only increased after that, and with that fury came the violence, especially as the Almighty refused to answer.  _

_ Raphael had left before the fighting turned serious, with no intention of returning.  _

_ Until the War came. _

_ Now, he could do nothing but wait. _

_ The Metatron had been talking for hours; name after name was listed and declared damned. _

_ Unholy. _

_ Banished. _

_ A barrier of Seraphim separated the damned from the rest and beyond their implacable armour Raphael could see his brothers and sisters stood in a huddled group near the base of the Metatron’s podium. Only Zadkiel looked at him, but the blankness in his eyes was worse than being ignored. Michael refused to look into the crowd as did almost all the other angelic onlookers, the pain of seeing those they loved condemned far too great or perhaps their disgust was just as overwhelming. Only the Metatron seemed comfortable with staring each condemned angel in the eye, his own eyes alight with righteousness, as he announced their sentence. _

_ Lucifer was the only one of the condemned to stare back, unflinchingly, and openly furious. _

_ Suddenly, the silence was broken. Among the angelic audience someone had managed to break through the Seraphim line. Raphael watched in horrified silence as Gabriel pushed his way through the sea of Traitors, his violet eyes darting back and forth between faces, searching frantically. The moment he and Remiel spotted each other they practically leapt into one another’s arms. This close Raphael could hear them though he dearly wished he couldn’t. _

_ Gabriel was in tears as he kissed Remiel’s forehead, “I forgive you,” He murmured, “I love you.” _

_ Remiel shuddered, “I love you, too.” _

_ The precious moment was shattered as several Seraphim waded through the Traitors, ripping Gabriel away. Raphael watched, helpless, as they dragged his younger brother out of sight. Gabriel kicking and screaming all the way, desperate to return to his partner. _

_ Pleading rarely worked when  _ **_She_ ** _ was involved. _

_ The Metatron returned to his list, lips curled in a furious sneer at the interruption. Raphael wasn’t surprised to hear his own name mentioned alongside Lucifer and he felt his older brother hiss dangerously under his breath. _

_ The Metatron finished and leaned forward, “For the crime of Rebellion and of Questioning our Almighty Lord, the Archangel known as Lucifer will be cast into the Pits of Hell to burn for the rest of eternity.” _

_ There was a sound like cracking ice and suddenly Lucifer Fell. Raphael backed away from the sudden emptiness by his feet, blinking back tears as he heard his brother’s agonised shrieks slowly fade away. The silence was absolute, Raphael could feel the angels around him shift as one, he could feel their terror. He could feel his own and it tasted bitter in his mouth. _

_ The Metatron looked to him next, the sneer curving upwards into a cruel smile, “For the crime of Rebellion and of Questioning our Almighty Lord, the angels who followed The Traitor are hereby twined with his fate.” _

_ A cry of dismay and horror rose from the crowd, from both sides, the Metatron continued through the screaming panic, “For the crimes laid against you, never again will you be allowed into Heaven! For your disloyalty you will be cast out! For your Sin. You will  _ **_BURN_ ** _!” _

_ The floor disappeared. Raphael watched, as if in slow motion, as the faces of his brothers and sisters behind the wall, twisted with horror and fear, flashed before his eyes.  _

_ He was Falling. _

_ His wings tried to open but the tearing wind refused it. Burning began at the tips of his fingers and, as he tried to slow his Fall, that burning increased: searing into his flesh like a brand and crawling up the skin of his arms. He was screaming, but the rush of the wind made him deaf to anything other than the agonising pain stabbing through his soul. The winds became rougher and, with two sickeningly wet pops, he felt his lower wings rip away. The pain was extraordinary, sparks of lava trickled through his veins, embedding themselves deep within the nerves of his back and flaring brighter and brighter. The flames reached his torso; Raphael screeched. His clothes were burning too, and his nose filled with stinging smoke. Something was being torn from him, his soul was being ravaged by some unknown beast, the teeth tearing into his gut, ripping through bone and flesh alike. Shuddering spikes of agony crawled down his back and his four remaining wings once more tried to open and slow his tumble through the air. For a brief, hopeful moment, he stabilised. Then the smallest pair of wings, anchored into the nape of his neck, were torn away sending violent spasms of pain lancing directly down his spine. _

_ He shrieked louder and the flames crawled into his throat. Coppery blood consumed his senses, his vision finally blacking out as tongues of fire pressed against his eyelids and cheeks. _

_ The burning reached his wings and Raphael managed to choke out a guttural roar as the fire tore into his soul. The flames grew brighter, hotter, and he could feel Grace leaking from his mouth, his eyes, where his wings used to be. The shriek of the wind was growing dimmer, but the pain only seemed to escalate, and Raphael wondered, distantly, if this would be the end of him. Or if  _ **_She_ ** _ wished to torment him with a never-ending Fall, only allowing him to reach the sanctuary of Hell when eternity ended. _

_ The flames grew brighter still, and Raphael felt Grace vomit forth from his mouth as he tried to scream. He convulsed as he Fell, charring wings and flesh burning incandescently, as bright as a star. _

“Crowley?”

_ Raphael’s eyes flew wide open, the darkness of before was now a blinding white, and he could feel a hand on his shoulder. Was someone Falling with him? Was he to have a partner in this dance? _

“Crowley!”

_ Raphael struggled to focus. That voice was not familiar, neither was the name but at the same time it was. Memories started to flow, the smell of petrichor, the shelter of an angel’s unburned wing, brilliant blue eyes filled with a love so powerful it rivalled that of Love herself. The pain threatened to flood in as well, the memories shaking like delicate threads on the edge of snapping. The hand squeezed tighter in response, the voice now mere inches from his ear. _

“Crowley, please…”

_ Angel? _

With a start, Crowley opened his eyes and saw fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliffhanger, surely not!
> 
> This chapter was, at once, incredibly fun to write and utterly heart-wrenching. From the beginning I wanted to write as Raphael and I found my chance here... and oh boy did the angst just start flowing and flowing.  
> Hope you enjoyed it though.  
> Oh and, by the way, from now on the chapters get _really_ long, because I apparently flourish when writing angst. Who knew.
> 
> Tommorrow, Crowley and Abyss have a chat, an angel is lost, and shit goes down at Jasmine cottage.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, comments and kudos fuel my writing :)


	26. Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a much too close encounter with Abyss, another angel is lost, and Jasmine cottage is running out of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic decriptions of injury and death. Ye have been warned.

Crowley gasped and coughed in the freezing air. Slowly he rose from unconsciousness, his mind freeing itself from the slick tendrils of poisonous memory, his body responding sluggishly.

He nearly screamed from the sheer agony. He would have, had he been able to inhale any air. His body was wracked with pain, every nerve ending felt frayed and abused, but no injury was worse than the four points of agony on his back. Two burning spots on the nape of his neck, two in the small of his back, he could feel them bleeding, and they were in far too familiar a place to be new.

Gradually, the pain receded, bit by bit, until his other senses were allowed through. He almost wished they hadn’t been granted such an honour. His mouth tasted like ash, blood, and long-forgotten Grace, the taste of so long ago. A time where, before, clarity had eluded him. 

But now?

Now those memories wouldn’t leave him be.

The taste of ash only worsened, and Crowley realised it was in the very air. The smell of charred flesh nearly made him gag but he was sure he was not the one who had been burned, at least not recently, so it must be-

_ Aziraphale! _

Panic flashed through his veins, painful memories and feelings alike shoved away in the face of this new all-consuming terror. What if Aziraphale had been caught in the blast? Crowley could remember it so clearly now, the Tower bursting into a roaring inferno, the shockwave blasting him back. What if one of those foul tongues of flame had caught Aziraphale? What if his angel was hurt? But he had heard him, hadn’t he? He had heard his angel’s voice as he Fell…

Crowley coughed and gagged as he forced himself up, the pain was nearly unbearable, but he bore it. This torture would be nothing if Aziraphale was hurt. Every twitch sent the pain straight to those four incandescent spots on his back and breathing felt like he was trying to inhale sand. The smell was still wickedly pervasive, and Crowley dug deep to pull himself up from the frozen ground. His sight was beginning to come back as he sat up, revealing nothing but scattered ash and destruction, when a hand closed around his throat.

Crowley found himself dangling a fair foot off the frozen sand and gasping in terror.

Gabriel smiled.

But it wasn’t Gabriel. Memory coursed through Crowley’s veins like an electric current.

Crowley knew Gabriel’s smile. Gabriel had always smiled in a particular way, a terribly  _ familiar _ way.

This was not it.

He looked like Maria, the grin was too wide, like whomever controlled it was unsure of how exactly the lips were meant to move and how the cheeks were meant to dimple slightly. His face, too, was wrong. Gabriel had pale skin, skin that crinkled around his eyes when he found something amusing or when he was irritated. This skin was sallow and grey, his cheeks hollowed to the point of gauntness, and his eyes were a solid, unrelenting black.

Crowley knew he was shaking but he didn’t have much wherewithal to even attempt to stop it.

Gabriel chuckled, the sound like a thousand sharpening knives against a grinder, it made Crowley wince.

“ _Ah, Crawley,_ ” hissed that hateful voice, “ _Enjoying your memories? I imagine not._ ”

Crowley swallowed reflexively and his sight cleared up a little more. He gasped, not caring a bit about the painful spasms the action sent convulsing down his throat.

The Tower, or what was left of it, was engulfed in blinding flame. A searing pillar scouring the very sky. The heat was unbelievable: a furnace fusing the sand surrounding the tower to solid glass, scorching light outlining Gabriel in vicious hues of scarlet and gold. And highlighting Abyss’ vicious smile.

“ _ It’s been so long since I last saw you, child, my how you’ve grown _ .” Crowley tried to twist out of the grip, but Abyss’ stolen hand may as well have been an iron vice for all the good it did him.

“ _ What a disgusting creature you’ve become _ ,” Abyss murmured, his voice changing; it slid over the syllables as smoothly as ice, “ _ No wonder Heaven grew so ashamed _ .”

Crowley paused in his efforts to free himself, the pain of his movements buried under thick adrenaline, and glared as much as he could at the monster who held him. Abyss’ smile widened.

“ _ Ah, but of course, you don’t know, _ ” His grin resembled that of a deep-sea predator, merciless teeth glinting in the dark, “ _ Such an embarrassment you were. No wonder  _ **_She_ ** _ detested you so. What a blow to  _ **_Her_ ** _ pride, to lose two Archangels at once. Do you know what  _ **_She_ ** _ did? After your little Fall?” _

Abyss drew Crowley closer until all he could see was those two pitiless pools of jet. It was like staring into oblivion itself and Crowley had to fight the urge to blink.

“ **_She_ ** _ lied _ ,” His grin could have been called manic had Crowley been able to find any gleam of emotion in those dark eyes, “ _ When  _ **_She_ ** _ took away all the happy memories from  _ **_Her_ ** _ children, when  _ **_She_ ** _ tried to ensure another Rebellion would never grow again from their love for creatures like you,  _ **_She_ ** _ lied about your fate.  _ **_She_ ** _ said you had died, that Lucifer, your own brother, had slain you in a fit of hedonistic rage. Though, in a way,  _ **_She_ ** _ was right, wasn’t  _ **_She_ ** _? Raphael was slain, but not by Lucifer. _ ”

Crowley closed his eyes, the memories behind them clamouring for attention like a blood-thirsty crowd before the guillotine. It took all the willpower he had to ignore the screaming. 

Bait, this was nothing but  _ bait _ , and he’d be damned thrice over if he rose to it. 

“ _ No _ ,” Abyss crooned, “ **_You_ ** _ killed him. Raphael was slain by Crawley. A miserable, pathetic, lonely little demon crying out in the dark to be noticed _ .”

Crowley flinched but said nothing. 

Abyss lifted one stolen hand and caressed his face.

Crowley managed to suppress a shudder.

“ _ What a poor, wretched thing you are. Clinging so tightly to divinity that was never yours. I almost pity you. _ ”

Crowley felt like he was going to be sick, but he smirked, drawing on his many millennia of playing pretend to keep the weak expression on his face.

“Don’t need a monster’s pity, ‘specially not from a monster like  _ you _ .”

Abyss raised an eyebrow, “ _ A monster? _ ”

Crowley chuckled, though it was far closer to wheezing than he would have liked, “Sure, Eros told us ‘bout you. How you’re this big powerhouse. Would’ve thought you’d have better things to do with your time than waste it killing celestials and mortals. Especially since they can’t fight back.” He felt his blood boil when he remembered the garden, the small lump wrapped in the pink coat resting there, “But killing a kid takes a special kind of monster.”

For the first time Crowley glimpsed a flash of emotion in those empty pits, a flash of anger, as red as a new dawn. Then it was gone.

The smile didn’t waver.

“ _ Humans, _ ” He nearly spat the word, “ _ Are little more than beasts with the power of speech. Twisted, arrogant amalgamations of my dear Brothers and Sisters. Look at what they have done to their planet, to themselves. They are the most wasteful creatures in existence. I waste nothing, I find purpose for all things. All I did was give purpose to an otherwise useless creature. _ ” A hint of amusement flickered through his empty eyes, _ “Though I must admit I admire your… tenacity. Many immortals have faced the void and have found nothing but emptiness and despair _ .”

Crowley tried for a grin, ignoring the way his gut twisted with hatred at the callous dismissal of Maria, “I try. I do have a question though.”

Abyss raised an eyebrow, “ _ Yes? _ ”

“Why him? You have a million different vessels to choose from. Why Gabriel?”

The question seemed to throw Abyss off, and Crowley felt the tiniest hint of smug satisfaction squeeze past the blood-curdling terror freezing his limbs and the mind-numbing fear for his angel. A small part of him stretched out again. The armies should be descending by now, shouldn’t they? Hadn’t that been the plan?

“ _ Why, he’s fulfilling his purpose of course _ .”

Crowley blinked, “His purpose? He’s God’s Messenger-”

Abyss grinned, “ _ Yes, he was, and now he is mine. You do not settle for subpar tools when a high quality one lies unused, that is just wasteful. And I waste nothing. _ ”

Crowley smirked, though his gut twisted with utter disgust, joining the fear and rage in an unceasing cacophony, “And here I thought you were just obsessed with possessing dead corpses.”

Abyss chuckled, “ _ Humorous to the end, I see. Perhaps some remnant of Raphael lives within you still, or perhaps you ape him still further. It matters not. Nothing matters anymore. _ ”

The hands around his throat began to tighten, choking off his obsolete lungs and making his spine creak ominously in his ears.

“ _ Do not fear, you will not be alone in death for long. I’ll make sure your angel joins you soon _ .”

Panic bolted through Crowley’s veins once more and he almost missed the flash of shiny black in his peripheral vision.

Abyss stumbled back and released Crowley—who fell gracelessly in a gasping heap on the frozen ground—to clutch at his stolen face as sludgy trails of blood crawled down the sunken cheeks. Crowley had half a second to gaze in awe upon the spectacle that was Prince Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies, in their full Hellish glory; the fly conspicuous by its absence, clad in chitinous armour hung with the rags of their suit—sheathing all but their neck and face—their razor claws dark with blood.

Then Crowley was whisked across the frozen ground.

By the time he had regained some semblance of thought, he was leaning against a warped marble wall and clenching his teeth as his throat convulsed painfully. The bruising was probably going to be spectacular.

A cold laugh interrupted the blessed reprieve.

“ _ How foolish of me to have forgotten you, little Prince! I am most impressed, truly I am. I had not imagined your heart to be so shrivelled and worthless as to forget your beloved’s face so quickly. _ ” 

Crowley grit his teeth but when he turned to look up at Beelzebub, taking in the multitude of small cuts on their exposed skin, he felt his heart sink even lower at the tracks of inky black making headway down their pale cheeks. For a moment, just a brief moment, they were an angel once more. Clear tears cutting a path down their cheeks as they wept for his brother. Then that angel was gone, the memory burning away in the frozen air as time crawled onwards.

“Are you alright?” They asked in a whisper, barely loud enough to be heard over the throaty roar of the Tower. Crowley flinched, the last of the memory turning to dust as they spoke.

He nodded, “No, you?”

Beelzebub huffed and wiped away a drop of blood crawling down their brow, “Fine.”

Crowley frowned, a strange concern filling his chest, “But… Gabriel-”

Beelzebub’s snarl would have sent a mortal shivering to their grave. Crowley however, having stared into the eyes of a pitiless murderer for far longer than he would have liked if he’d been given any choice, merely flinched.

“That izzn’t Gabriel.” They growled, claws digging furrows in the marble wall.

Crowley’s frown deepened, “I know but-”

The glare was considerably worse than the snarl.

A sudden crunch of frozen sand interrupted their infuriated response and both demons froze, pressing against the marble wall as closely as they could.

A hideous laugh echoed throughout Babylon.

Crowley bit back a whimper of fear and instead turned to his saviour, “Sssummon the bloody army already!” He whispered under his breath, his serpent’s tongue flickering out, whipping through the frozen air.

“I can’t!” They whispered back, the rage replaced by something very akin to fear in their blue eyes, “I can’t reach Hell.”

Crowley swallowed, he had been wondering what the vacuous empty spot in his soul was and now he knew.

His ties to Hell had been severed.

Were Babylon’s wards really that powerful? Was this Abyss’ doing? Or maybe… Maybe it was because Hell was… was…

Crowley shook his head and bit back a cry of pain as several muscles he didn’t know he had complained rather vigorously. No time to think about what-ifs.

Apparently, Beelzebub agreed with him and the silently crying Prince led the way to a concealing set of half-melted stairs. Behind them Crowley could hear Abyss hunting through the ruins, shoes crunching on the sand with every step. He was making no effort to hide himself. With a start, Crowley realised he probably couldn’t even sense where they were, the Tower was outputting too much energy for that.

_ Great _ , he thought,  _ so he wants to play. Fine. I can play _ .

Temporarily safe under the frigid staircase Crowley felt his heart tighten with worry.

“What about the others?” He whispered, “What about Aziraphale? Did you see what happened?”

Beelzebub licked their lips, the moisture freezing in the air, “They were blazzted further into the city. Didn’t zzee where they landed. I think Zadkiel wazz hurt”

Another crunch of sand sent them both scurrying between twisted pillars of marble, moving as quietly as they could as a monster stalked the streets of the dead city. Laughter echoed through the still air and Crowley winced, the noise grating against his ears like a grindstone.

Then he had to stop himself from crying out in relief.

Sheltered in an alcove, looking for all the world like a remnant of some fantastical sculptor with an eye for beauty, lay Aziraphale.

If it hadn’t been for the blood staining his once impeccable old coat, Crowley could have mistaken him for such sculpture.

Crowley’s movement was a blur, his heart racing too frantically to be anything other than a frustrated hum. Aziraphale was warm in his arms and it took barely any effort at all to feel the life beating within him still. Crowley could have sobbed aloud but instead focused on bringing Aziraphale back, determined to see those lovely blue eyes again.

“ _ Ah, but I am curious _ .”

Crowley flinched and felt his wings manifest, curling protectively around Aziraphale, as Beelzebub growled low in their throat. It felt like Abyss was standing right there in the sand, kneeling to whisper in Crowley’s ear, but when Crowley looked, he saw nothing but a frozen wasteland.

The voice continued, sneering cruelty practically dripping from every syllable, “ _ Why do you cling to that angel of yours? Did some infernal instinct seek out a blank slate? Someone who never truly knew Raphael? What was it that you wanted from him? What could he have given you, I wonder? Forgiveness? Sympathy?  _ **_Love_ ** _? _ ”

Crowley hissed low in his throat, pushing down the white-hot serpent of rage threatening to squeeze away the last of his self-control.

Aziraphale moved in his arms.

The serpent released its hold and Crowley pressed his angel to his chest, a low, wordless sound of pure relief shuddering from his lips. The Principality’s strong arms encircled his neck and Crowley didn’t even wince as they brushed up against the two wounds that lay there. The joy at finding his angel—his darling sweet angel—safe and alive was worth it. Aziraphale shivered in his arms and Crowley kissed his platinum curls, inhaling the scent of books and vanilla—the smell of home, of safety, of bookshops and park walks and perfect dinners at the Ritz.

“Crowley…?” Aziraphale murmured, wonder lighting his eyes aflame in that way that made Crowley’s heart thunder in his chest.

“Crowley.” Beelzebub hissed, the rapidly approaching sound of crunching footsteps breaking through the tranquillity. The moment shattered. Pain came flooding back and the incessant terror came too, grasping his heart along with the raging serpent. 

Gently, oh so gently, Crowley helped Aziraphale to his feet, biting back any whimper that dared to arise in response to Aziraphale’s clinging grasp.

Then Aziraphale stumbled.

Crowley struggled to hold him upright, automatically checking Aziraphale up and down for any bad injuries other than the cuts, though he found none. Within Crowley’s protective embrace Aziraphale practically thrummed with terror, the heavy emotion unable to hang in the air as the ever-hungry pillar of flame somewhere to the right whisked it away.

Had Crowley been any other demon, one who had not spent six millennia acclimatising themselves with the subtle emotional nuances of his angel, he would have missed it. The terror was understandable, Crowley himself was faintly surprised he was still functioning at all, but underneath that current of fear, almost buried beneath the waves of energy from the Tower, was a knot of pure, unadulterated  _ horror _ .

But… he had just woken up, hadn’t he? He couldn’t have possibly seen Abyss yet, nor could he have seen the body the murderous psycho was parading about in in all its macabre glory.

So why…?

Aziraphale looked up and Crowley could see tears glistening in those azure blue eyes.

“Crowley,” He croaked, his beautiful voice cracking in the whisper, “I can’t feel it anymore. I… It’s  _ gone _ .”

Letting Aziraphale lean on him a little more, Crowley grit his teeth and hobbled after Beelzebub, the Prince never straying more than a step or two ahead of them. Once the pain faded to something more tolerable and the crunching footsteps were left behind, Crowley looked back to Aziraphale.

“Can’t feel what, angel?” He asked, whispering low.

“Heaven.”

A rasping laugh echoed through the shadows and all three froze dead still.

“ _ Well, well _ ,” Abyss wheezed, his voice thrumming through the air as delicately as a live wire, “ _ The clever angel figured it out. I honestly should have expected it, he is so much more intuitive than you, Crawley _ .”

Clarity took one long, agonising moment to arrive and, when it did, Crowley felt his dwindling supply of hope drain that much further.

As a demon, no matter how desperately he ignored it, he had an intrinsic connection to Hell. A throbbing, searing place in his soul where he drew forth the infernal energy that had replaced the Grace of Before. He had always despised that connection, just the reminder of it made the back of his throat itch with the taste of sulphur, but he had relied on it—however hesitantly.

Now… now that connection was severed. The gaping and ragged hole he had felt before was all that was left, a testament to the violent way in which it had been ripped asunder from him. Crowley’s veins turned at once leaden and icy as dread pooled in his stomach.

Beelzebub placed a hand to their chest, watery blue eyes widening in realised horror, their claws scratching gently against the protective chitin breastplate under the tatters of their suit.

Crowley remembered to inhale and took comfort, however slight, in the familiar feeling of his chest rising and falling—pointedly ignoring the ash settling on his tongue and the ozone smell in the air.

No ward could have done this.

No being, no matter how powerful, could have dug this out of him so neatly and so completely.

Hell was  _ gone _ .

Heaven was  _ gone _ .

There was no help coming.

Aziraphale stirred in his embrace and a sharp, hot stab of love shot through Crowley.

_ Fuck it _ .

With a grim sort of determination, the kind born only from a hopeless situation and a possibly suicidal refusal to face facts, Crowley grit his teeth and helped Aziraphale keep walking. His angel still shook, terror continuing to bleed from his aura in shuddering waves, but he stood straight; blue eyes flashing with both pained tears and a determination that burned even more fiercely than Crowley’s

It almost brought a smile to his lips when, with a flash of holy light, the flaming sword reappeared in Aziraphale’s hands. The blade was alight with a fire as hungry as the inferno consuming the Tower.

There were no words needed, speech would have just been a waste of time, so Beelzebub led the way.

The maze of marble and frozen sand was no less confusing than before but with Aziraphale beside him, with living breathing  _ proof _ pressed into his side that his angel was  _ okay _ , that he hadn’t been consumed by the Tower, it made everything just a little more bearable. The fact that the roaring agony of repressed and hidden memories also quieted in Aziraphale’s presence was a blessing that Crowley chose not to question.

The quiet moment of contentment, if it could even be called that, wasn’t long-lived.

Behind a set of marble walls lay a sight that froze the rest of the blood in Crowley’s veins, like the damnable cold that infected this once holy place had finally seeped into his soul.

Behind the wall sat Eros, cuts healing on her face and neck and ragged tears in her tartan sweater, cradling something formerly white but now charred beyond almost all recognition. It stank of roasted flesh and it was leaking Grace.

Eros cried over Zadkiel like a mother would her child, silent grief shaking her shoulders as she held the Archangel.

Crowley felt numb, even Aziraphale’s warm body pressed against his did little to halt the spreading cold in his chest.

  
  


_ “Back already brother?” _

_ “Honestly, what am I going to do with you, Raphael? You’re impossible!” _

_ “Oh, just wait a moment, the bandages are around here somewhere.” _

_ “Brother, you just have to talk to him. Introduce yourself. It doesn’t matter if he’s a Principality.” _

  
  


A thousand memories pressed behind his eyes and Crowley felt like he was drowning in them, Aziraphale his only anchor to the physical world.

The laughter brought him back, more chilling than the cold air.

“ _ Ah, dearest Sister. Crying over another pet? I told you they don’t last long. _ ”

Abyss sounded as if he were getting closer and Crowley instinctively drew Aziraphale closer to him, his raven wings reflecting the glow of the flaming sword like an ebony mirror. Beelzebub growled faintly, claws stretched out and trembling with a rage Crowley could taste in the air.

Abyss’ laughter faded, his voice turning contemplative, “ _ Though I will not deny they have their… merits at times. I do recognise worthy opponents. Crawley and his little angel at least showed some  _ **_spirit_ ** _! Managed to thwart my plans without even realising them for what they were, rebelling against a Plan they didn’t know they were a part of, now that’s commendable! Much more impressive than what can be said of the late Gabriel and his… partner. _ ”

Crowley felt scales grow out on his face and the column of his throat, the urge to wrap himself tightly around Aziraphale in order to present at least some sort of barrier to keep his angel safe was nearly overwhelming.

Abyss chuckled once more, and Crowley’s quivering wings rose higher as the hissing voice echoed from within the small sanctuary.

“ _ No, little Prince, you and Gabriel may have prevented another War with that investigation of yours, your  _ **_truce_ ** _ , but that didn’t save him, did it? That didn’t save him from  _ **_me_ ** _. _ ”

The whispers were even louder now, and Crowley could barely even  _ think _ through the panic clouding his thoughts.

“ _ He  _ **_suffered_ ** _ , little Prince. I did not make his end swift. Do you want to know how he  _ **_screamed_ ** _? Do you want to know how he shrieked for you? Cried your name to the heavens instead of Hers in search of  _ **_mercy_ ** _ , in search of  _ **_love_ ** _. _ ”

Crowley felt his stomach cramp, his vision blurring as nausea nearly overwhelmed him. Beelzebub looked like a corpse in their onyx armour, skin as pale as snow even in the harsh light of the cold setting sun and the roaring Tower. Crowley didn’t even need to try and reach out to them to feel the resurgent waves of grief and regret and terror and so, so much  _ pain _ .

Then something growled, a low, vicious  _ angry _ sound, and Crowley flinched when Zadkiel’s body burst into cleansing flames, reduced to nothing but a fine, powdery ash in seconds. Eros stood, golden eyes blazing with grief and fury, the grey dust dutifully leaving her hands and clothes unstained as they blew away into nothingness.

The voice paused, something akin to resentment staining the air, like a child sulking about being denied their toy.

“ _ How clever of you, Sister _ ,” Abyss hissed, “ _ It means little, I have his soul, denying me his body means  _ **_nothing_ ** _. It is no victory. _ ”

Then the voice faded, and Crowley heaved out a breath he had no idea he had been holding. His knees wobbled dangerously, the pain of everything struggled to register in his mind. And then Aziraphale was there.

Angelic warmth seeped into his veins, melting the frozen blood and thawing his chest.

He could have cried, would have if he’d any energy left to do so.

“Aziraphale…” He managed to murmur. Aziraphale said nothing but Crowley saw his smile, hesitant and small, but still  _ there _ .

A hand on his shoulder nearly made him lash out with his claws until he realised Eros was the one touching him.

“Crowley, we have to go.” She whispered, tears still drying on her cheeks but a fiery determination in her eyes.

Crowley swallowed, “But… but the armies they… a-and Heaven and Hell are… are…”

Eros’ eyes softened, “I know, I know. But we cannot let my Brother find us. We have to leave the city, return to Adam. With him we may stand a chance-”

A cry of rage broke the stilled air followed by Abyss’ hollow laughter.

The ground was a blur as Crowley ran, a deep-seated instinct reacting to the war-cry of his sister. Aziraphale ran beside him, clutching onto his hand and the flaming sword. After what seemed like no time at all and an eternity, he broke through the marble forest onto the empty main road of Babylon.

Except it wasn’t empty.

Michael stood, flanked by Uriel, Belphegor, and Asmodeus, her sword drawn and all six wings on display. 

The road was already coated in a fine spray of blood.

Abyss laughed once more and charged forward, wielding what looked to be a heavenly broadsword. Michael leapt to meet him and the clash of the two weapons sent out a shockwave so powerful it cracked several nearby marble pillars.

“My God…” Aziraphale whispered, his horrified gaze riveted to the dancing corpse that had once been Gabriel.

With a harsh bark of laughter, Abyss sent Michael sprawling backwards, his hollow eyes glancing in Crowley’s direction.

“ _ Ah! Welcome, welcome! Serpent, Principality, Prince, dearest Sister! So glad you could join us! _ ”

The two demon Princes leapt forward as he spoke, trying to take advantage of Abyss’ momentary distraction, Asmodeus nearly reverting to all fours as he charged with Belphegor. Abyss smirked and, with a single swipe of the sword, sent both Princes reeling back with freshly bleeding wounds. With a cry of dismay, Uriel raced to Belphegor’s side, her six wings puffing up into a more intimidating display as she crouched over the wounded Prince.

“ _ No wonder She abandoned you all _ .” Abyss shook his head, the grin growing somehow wider, “ _ Lusting after demons, how  _ **_shameful_ ** _ of you Uriel. _ ”

“Stop this Brother! Please, stop this now!” Eros walked into the road; palms turned upwards.

Abyss smirked, “ _ Ah, Sister. Still naïve, after all this time. A shame really _ .”

Crowley yelped as he was thrown out onto the road, Aziraphale landing heavily beside him. He tasted blood in his mouth and scrambled to his feet.

Lucifer, or what was left of him, stood holding Beelzebub up by the neck by the road’s edge. A gaping wound was open in the Devil’s throat, black sludge crawling down the yellowish skin, and two disturbingly familiar pitch-black eyes stared out from his hateful face.

A million memories burst to life at once.

He was Lucifer, his brother, his fellow Archangel, his leader, his torturer, his Master, his Keeper. Love, anger, betrayal, hurt, and terror flashed through him in equal measure and Crowley had to reach out and grab Aziraphale’s hand so as not to lose himself in the maelstrom.

From the other side of the ruined street a similar spectre strode out in the corpse of the Metatron, a hole in its chest bleeding freely and staining the thoroughly ruined white robes a fresh, sticky red.

_ Trap _ , his inner self shrieked,  _ it’s a trap and he led you right into it! _

“ _Admiring my work Sister?_ ” Abyss asked, the smile audible in his sharp voice, “ _I admit it was rushed, I damaged them a bit in my haste, but I was loathe to waste time on such foul creatures._ ”

With a moan of terror, Eros took a step back, the two Princes reacting in much the same way to their former Master. 

The corpse seemed to smirk before throwing Beelzebub out into the road, the Prince landing with a sickening  _ thud _ beside Crowley.

Lucifer stepped forward.

In a surge of blind panic, Crowley spread his wings and beat down with reckless abandon; every nerve singing with a fear carefully cultivated over millennia—every thought  _ hell-bent _ on escape.

Pain lanced through both feathered limbs and he collapsed back onto the ground, the breath knocked out of him as his wings slumped, numb and useless, on either side.

“Crowley!”

Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s hands on him, soft gentle things so incongruous with all this pain.

Abyss laughed, his voice echoing like a canyon.

“ _ Trying to escape Crawley? Terribly in-character for you. And an entirely fruitless endeavour. No point trying to fight against one of  _ **_Her_ ** _ wards, the Metatron learned that all too late _ .”

Another set of hands reached to help, and Crowley felt Eros’ power envelope him, stealing the worst of the pain away so he could finally breathe.

Sight returned to him as well.

Crowley would have preferred it if it hadn’t.

They had appeared silently, row after row of them, lining the road and the ruins surrounding it. They were old, young, middle-aged; from every race, every walk of life. With only two things in common.

They were human.

And they were dead.

Crowley couldn’t possibly count them all, especially with the desert day beginning to end and the Tower casting confusing shadows all over the place—illuminating their faces and black, empty eyes.

The air reeked of death; Crowley felt like he was choking on it.

Abyss laughed.

“ _ I’m afraid to say Crawley, you’re stuck here. _ ”

Crowley turned, his hand still gripping Aziraphale tightly, Abyss’ smile was that of a predator. Hungry and cruel.

“ _ You’re going to  _ **_die_ ** _ here _ .”

***

“I-is she dead?”

“Hush Newt, not so loud, you’ll scare the children.”

“But is she-?”

“No, she isn’t dead.”

Dagon groaned as the voices broke through the comfortable fog of unconsciousness. Everything  _ ached _ , like she’d been hit full force by a freight train with faulty brakes or had decided that showering in diluted holy water was a good idea. Memories began to trickle back in, all jumbled and discoloured with no coherent order to them. Faces flashed behind her closed eyes, names and voices slowly coming back.

The human with the squeaky voice was called Newt and—other than the fact that he was dating a witch and happened to be palling around with the Antichrist—he was an utterly unremarkable human if one did not count his perplexingly terrible relationship with technology.

The other human was the witch—someone Dagon had somehow instantly known as a person worthy of respect the moment she had strode out of her unassumingly quaint country cottage. Then again, that might have been because of the way she had spoken to Michael-

_ “Oh, Dagiel, don’t fuss! I’m perfectly fine! The Seraph just got a lucky hit.” _

Dagon sat up, nearly headbutting Anathema.

Panic and pain and sheer  _ confusion _ raced through her blood in worryingly equal amounts.

Dagiel.

_ Dagiel _ .

A name. Her name. That had been her name, hadn’t it?

Before.

Before the Fall.

The memories began to coalesce more firmly, old and new faces crawling out of the fog. A million different sensations swept over her, a million tiny memories her body had forgotten. Her heart throbbed painfully as one image, one face, became painfully clear in her mind; an old, old feeling stirring fretfully awake in her chest.

Then… everything stopped.

Breathing hard despite not needing to breathe at all, Dagon swiped at something warm trickling down her lips. The back of her hand came away scarlet.

“Easy, easy,” Anathema soothed, lowering her hands still shimmering with magic from where they had briefly rested against Dagon’s shoulder, doing an admirable job at disguising the tremor in her voice.

“What…” Dagon licked her lips experimentally, marvelling at the salty copper taste on her tongue, “What happened?”

With the avalanche of intruding memories now blocked, stoppered behind a sheet of flimsy human magic, a shaky new timeline emerged.

Guarding the children, that’s what Eros had ordered her to do. She remembered sitting with the girl Adam had introduced as Pepper as the gathering had occupied themselves with chatter and watching movies. Dagon was fairly sure Eros had said nothing about sitting with the girl as she bared her heart, whispering all her fears into the demon’s ancient suit as if the fabric would store them away for later, nor anything about allaying those fears with a small smile and a few words of comfort. No, she hadn’t ordered that.

But the memory of doing so was still there, all the same.

Dagon blinked and the stuffy living room with its notes and dreary wallpaper came back into view.

Her heart throbbed again.

Anathema swallowed, “You… you sort of fainted. The others did, too. Even Israfiel. Hastur and Ligur are coming around now, but you were bleeding, so we checked on you first.”

Dagon was only half-listening.

The throb wasn’t her heart. It came from someplace deeper, someplace darker, a connection she’d never cared for or nurtured. A connection now severed and bleeding in her soul.

“Hell’s gone…” She whispered, barely audible under her breath, a numbness just beginning to crest in her heart.

Anathema blinked, dumbfounded, “ _ Gone? _ How can- that’s not possible! It can’t be! I-I felt a flare of strong magic before you fainted but that couldn’t mean… it couldn’t…” Even as she spoke, Dagon could hear the conviction leave her voice, her indignation morphing into more of a plea than anything else.

A sudden spike of  _ interest _ , a dark and malevolent intent from outside the fragile stone walls of the cottage caught Dagon’s attention.

“The wards…” She murmured, “Oh shit, the wards!” She scrambled to her feet, dizziness ignored in favour of rushing to the relevant carpet and scraping it off the ward circle beneath.

It was glowing still, but much more weakly than before. Instead of a steady pulse of Heavenly power, all Dagon could sense was the thready remnants of Eros’ Grace still feeding the wards outside. The last of a foolish hope left her heart. These circles were a Heavenly creation, they drew their power from Heaven and now… now all that was keeping this one going was the Grace of her Queen. A Grace that was ever so slowly draining. Had Dagon still possessed any Grace she could have given it to the circle to bolster the dwindling energy but, as it was, that was impossible.

The dark presence outside stirred and Dagon nearly growled in retaliation.

Time was rapidly running out. There was only one choice she could make.

Leaving the dimming circle uncovered, Dagon raced to the kitchen, barging past the two humans who had tried to follow after her. The children sat next to the prone forms of the Dukes, both wincing with every move as they tried to stand.

Pepper looked up from where she was helping Hastur to stand and Dagon fancied she saw a small smile on the little human’s lips, “Oh! You’re okay.”

Dagon resisted the urge to smile back and motioned to the stairs, “We’ve run out of time, get upstairs.”

Had she more experience with human children, Dagon would have expected them to ask questions as most young humans were wont to do. But they didn’t. Instead of questioning, all three children looked to Adam, instinctively waiting for what their illustrious leader would decide to do.

Adam nodded, “Alright.”

Five minutes later they were all sealed up in the cottage’s master bedroom, the Dukes having had to carry Israfiel upstairs as well. With the curtains drawn and the door tightly shut, the only light that lit the room was the faint glow from Anathema’s palms and the wan moonlight from outside, and it took even Dagon’s eyes a while to adjust to the dimness. By the time they did, Adam had already organised the Them into a defensive huddle in one corner with Anathema and Newt crouching near them under the window by Israfiel’s motionless body, Anathema’s hands glowing their subtle blue and Newt wielding both a cricket bat and a grim expression. Even the tiny hellhound looked determined as he stood, back arched and tiny fangs exposed in a silent snarl. Being a demon, Dagon expected the room to be absolutely flooded with fear, so much so that she would be unable to feel anything else. But she could only taste a grim determination and enough fury to burn the house down to its foundations. Pepper had even armed herself with a small kitchen knife and Dagon felt a strange little twist of pride at the sight.

Another twitch of attention from outside snapped her back to reality and she signalled to the Dukes, both of whom were armed with hellish blades.

In the shivering sliver of light from outside, Dagon also noticed they were holding hands. A feeling twisted in her gut, one of fear. A ridiculous emotion to feel for an Archangel, especially one as capable as Michael, but logic didn’t really matter anymore.

The entire Universe had gone to shit, anyway.

Dagon sighed and pressed herself flat against the wall next to the door, claws and teeth sharp and waiting. 

The cottage was utterly silent. The only noise not from the quiet breathing of the humans huddled together, was a deep, almost inaudible pounding as something outside began to test their barrier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting quite predictable with the cliffhangers, aren't I?  
> Ah well, the sacrifices we make for suspense, am I right?
> 
> Oh, also, I looked up Dagiel and apparently that particular angel is 'Lord of the Fish'. Made sense for Dagon.
> 
> Tomorrow- all hell breaks loose.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, comments and kudos are welcome and much appreciated :)


	27. A Desperate War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a really shitty day and the cottage is beseiged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic descriptions of violence and injury. Ye have been warned.

Aziraphale readjusted his grip on the flaming sword and swung. This time the ever-sharp blade sliced right through the neck of the vessel, completely decapitating the walking corpse so fast he barely felt any resistance. The cursed knife the vessel had wielded fell from its nerveless fingers to clatter to the frozen ground, the noise completely lost in the din of the furious battle and the Tower still roaring in the background.

Aziraphale barely had the time to watch the vessel collapse after the blade as a new knife was thrust just inches away from his face by yet another vessel. The odd weightlessness of the flaming sword was offset slightly as Aziraphale lifted it to parry the sloppy move and drive the body back. A growl to his right, just audible beneath the furious shouts and screams from their allies somewhere on the road to the Tower, was all the warning he had before the corpse fell back, blood pouring from a new wound to the neck, and Crowley shoved it away. In the stuttering light of the Tower Crowley looked positively terrifying. His eyes glowing a fearsome amber with anger and protective rage, clawed hands dripping with darkened clotting blood. Aziraphale supposed he himself looked no better but the disparity between the Crowley he knew and this one was too stark to ignore—at least until the next vessel raced up to replace it’s fallen comrade, this time armed with a much larger carving knife and the same suicidal fervour of its fellows.

The flaming sword glowed with what Aziraphale could only describe as excitement as it cut down body after body, almost singing through the charged air as its owner finally fulfilled his role as a warrior.

Somewhere in the confusing maelstrom of the road their allies were fighting their own desperate battles against the endless tide, but in the confusion Aziraphale had lost sight of them, even Eros as she had raced to defend Belphegor from the corpse of Lucifer. There had been no sign of Abyss since the start of the battle, but his absence was as much, if not more, worrying than his presence.

A small, stinging flash of pain across one arm caught Aziraphale by surprise, but before he could even think to block the next swing or dodge it and attempt to miracle the wound closed despite his exhaustion, the vessel had already crumpled to the ground in a heap. Crowley snarled, scales shining wetly with blood on his neck, and puffed up his sleek black wings, the ebony feathers reflecting the scarlet flames of the Tower.

“You okay, angel?”

Aziraphale smiled tightly, “I’m fine, it was just-  _ Look out!” _

Crowley barely dodged the Heavenly blade in time, the tip slicing a shallow arc into the demon’s shoulder.

What was left of the Metatron stepped forward out of the sea of other vessels, a sword clutched tightly in his corpse-white hand, and a foul grin stretching his grey lips. Aziraphale met his next swing with the confidence of the warrior he was meant to be, a confidence he had never felt before, but one which was as natural as breathing.

Even the Metatron’s hideous grin—despite terrifying Aziraphale to no end—barely put a dent in the new feeling’s façade. The scent of Crowley’s blood was enough to block out any fear.

As if sensing his prey’s newfound feet, the Metatron’s grin grew wider, “Little Aziraphale…” He croaked, the withered whisper somehow both louder and quieter than the shriek of the surrounding battle, “Weak, cowardly,  _ pathetic _ Aziraphale…”

Aziraphale grit his teeth and blocked the next attack, the blades throwing sparks as they collided. The strength behind the swing nearly made Aziraphale’s knees buckle but he managed to push the sword away. He could hear and feel Crowley fighting behind him and he ignored the desperate urge buried in his chest to grab the demon and flee, escape the madness of Babylon with the one being who meant the world to him.

It was a false urge. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere that would be safe.

Not even Alpha Centauri.

Aziraphale almost smiled at the memory of it.

The next blow from the corpse in the ragged white robes nearly threw him off balance, so much so that Aziraphale had to release his wings to steady himself and prevent the Metatron’s sword from skewering him through the heart. Behind him, he felt Crowley stumble, a sharp gasp of pain escaping the demon’s lips as a vessel got a lucky hit. The tiny distraction was enough that the Metatron changed the direction of his swing, aiming to slice off Aziraphale’s head.

The blade never reached its target.

Instead both it and its owner were flung to the side like dolls, disappearing completely into the sea of bodies, and Eros stood where the Metatron had been just a bare moment before.

Aziraphale was almost as terrified of her as he had been of the corpse.

For the first time, Eros truly looked like the Queen of Hell, and Aziraphale nearly recoiled from the maelstrom that her aura had become—he would have done if not for her still soft, still familiar smile.

Then the sky shattered.

Aziraphale reflexively covered himself with his wings and pulled Crowley close.

Great shards of lightning split the sky; bolts of greedy energy spat directly from the ugly black clouds that spewed from the inferno that had once been the Tower. Then the rain began. Great black sheets of rain lashed down on the battlefield, achingly cold and instantly numbing. Crowley gasped beside him, drawing further under the shelter of Aziraphale’s wing.

Gently, the ground began to tremble.

A cold wind tore through the battle and the rain. Aziraphale barely had a moment to react before Crowley was torn from his side and disappeared into the ever-shifting sea.

“Crowley!” The scream was lost in the noise of battle and Aziraphale didn’t realise he was running, Eros following closely behind him, until he shoved past the last vessel into the empty courtyard of Babel.

The sight terrified him more than any empty cadaver’s smile ever could.

Crowley stood quite still, hands gripping the arm across his throat, pure terror clouding his golden eyes under his sodden red hair, and a shimmering Heavenly sword pressed against his throat. Abyss stood behind him in front of the burning Tower, Gabriel’s corpse looking far worse than before with several long bleeding wounds down his arms and an ugly wound in his chest, the blood running clear in the deluge.

The ever-present smile was as hideous as his injuries.

The flare of power at Aziraphale’s side as Eros released all six of her wings barely even registered through the numb panic gripping his heart.

Abyss chuckled, the thunder of the storm quietening as he spoke, “ _ I’d hardly advise wasting your power like that, Sister, awfully frivolous of you. _ ”

Eros glared, her wings spreading like a golden canopy in an unmistakeable threat display, “Let him go!”

Abyss continued as if he hadn’t heard her, readjusting his hold on Crowley, the blade slicing a small nick into his throat. Aziraphale flinched and he could see Crowley trying desperately not to do the same.

“ _ The bodies of celestials are funny things, Sister _ ,” Abyss said, his voice sliding across the syllables as smoothly as ice, “ _ They’re intrinsically connected to the realms from which they were forged. They can  _ **_survive_ ** _ being severed of that connection but, as you can see _ …”

The static edge of the sea of vessels swelled and Aziraphale swallowed thickly as the bodies of both the Metatron and Lucifer walked calmly out, sporting hideous wounds, and dragging the struggling forms of both the Archangels and Beelzebub, all of whom moved sluggishly. The two corpses stopped only to force them to the ground, white wings and black claws twitching with fatigue and fury in the frozen dust.

Abyss’ eyes sparked delightedly, “ _ The side effects leave one rather **vulnerable**. _ ”

There was no sign of the other two Princes and Aziraphale reminded himself to keep breathing.

Eros stiffened, her wings fluttering in the icy downpour, “Brother stop this! Please! Can you not see this is madness?”

Abyss stopped smiling.

With a sound like ancient ice cracking asunder, a pair of utterly black wings erupted from Abyss’ back; the enormous limbs almost blocking out the foundation of the Tower still roaring with scarlet flame, each feather seemingly cut out of the world, leaving nothing but the void behind. The smile was replaced with a snarl, a flash of deepest red flaring in his eyes and fluttering delicately over his wings, the colour fading as quickly as it had come.

The rage was palpable and had Abyss not been holding Crowley with a blade at his throat Aziraphale would have backed away under the safety of Eros’ wings.

“ **_Madness_ ** ,” Abyss spat, as if the word were a curse, “ _ This is not madness. This is practicality. You are the one who is mad, Sister. Throwing in your lot with such inferior creatures, maiming yourself for them _ …” His black eyes pointedly glanced at the withered lower left wing glowing weakly with golden light, “ _ Suffering such disfigurement for those creatures.  _ **_That_ ** _ is madness _ .”

“Brother,” Eros took a step forward, hands carefully held out and empty, “Brother I  _ had _ to. I had to protect them so-”

“ _ Had to? You  _ **_ABANDONED ME_ ** _! _ ” The red temporarily swallowed his eyes and the storm thundered overhead ominously.

Abyss’ snarl grew more feral, his grip on Crowley more ruthless and it broke Aziraphale’s heart to see tears slowly slide down the demon’s cheeks, the rain unable to wash them away.

“ _ You abandoned us all, Sister. Left us to face  _ **_Her_ ** _ wrath.  _ **_She_ ** _ was furious and  _ **_She_ ** _ took it out on us.  _ **_She_ ** _ cast us into the void, never to return. Because of  _ **_you_ ** _. Because of what you did for  _ **_them_ ** !”

His face twisted with a violent disgust and the red flared so brightly that the empty wings almost looked likely to burst into flames. In one smooth move he threw Crowley to the ground and, before Crowley could crawl out of the way, he brought his foot down on the joint of Crowley’s right wing. The hollow, wet _crack_ was just barely audible under the agonised shriek that echoed in Aziraphale’s heart. He ached to race forward and gather up the demon in his arms, stop the pain at any cost, but caution and fear stopped him.

The flare of power from Eros was metaphysically blinding. She snarled just as fiercely as Abyss, more so. Her wings glowed as magnificently as her eyes and every atom of her corporation radiated fiercely with terrifying raw power, so much so that the ice by her feet melted in an instant and then joined the rain in evaporating away.

Abyss just chuckled, the red in his eyes and wings now absent. With one hand he picked Crowley up by the neck and Aziraphale felt his heart shatter again when Crowley didn’t even struggle, he just hung limply with his right wing dangling at a grotesquely sharp angle.

“ _ You’re wasting power again, Sister, and we both know you can’t afford that. Especially not now. _ ”

He looked over at the three celestials still pinned to the floor by the corpses of Lucifer and the Metatron and frowned.

“ _ I don’t understand it, Sister. Why do you waste yourself on these things? They’re so fragile and weak. So easily  _ **_manipulated_ ** _. _ ” He chuckled again, the sound grating horribly in the stormy night air, his gaze homing in on Michael, “ _ So eager to tear each other to pieces at the merest hint of an excuse, never thinking to  _ **_Question_ ** _. I shouldn’t have even bothered with The Great Plan; they would have murdered one another anyway, prophesised or not. _ ”

“ **LIAR** ,” Michael roared from where she was still pinned, angelic fury sparking in her storm-grey eyes, “The Great Plan was the Almighty’s! You  _ dare _ take credit for Her actions?”

Abyss smirked and Lucifer slammed his blade into Michael’s shoulder, the sword shattering the pauldron she wore into a dozen shimmering white pieces. Her agonised shriek was cut off when she bit her lip, gritting her teeth together determinedly.

“ _ Pretty Michael, I suppose I should not be surprised you have difficulty grasping this absurdly simple concept. You always were more interested in matters of brutality.  _ **_She_ ** _ had  _ **_nothing_ ** _ to do with The Great Plan, but you were all too eager to tear the ‘Enemy’ apart to ask any proper questions. I’ve seen Wrath show better self-restraint _ .”

The look on Michael’s face was murderous but Abyss turned his gaze away disinterestedly, as if forgetting she existed entirely.

“ _ So easily moulded to my will and yet you think they are deserving of you. Why? _ ”

Eros blinked, “Because I love them. Because they are worthy of that love, of every drop I have left to give. And I will give it gladly. So, you must stop this!”

Abyss sighed and smiled, almost gently, “ _ But Sister, it is already too late. _ ”

Eros took another tentative step forward, hands still held out, her palms collecting water, “It’s never too late to turn back, Brother. You can still leave this path. You can still come back to me.”

Abyss’ smile widened before he burst out laughing, the sound akin to shattering glass, “ _ Ah, still so naïve, little Sister. _ ” With the sword he gestured to Babylon, just barely visible through the quiet but ferocious storm, “ _ What has been done cannot be undone. This world will end just as Heaven and Hell ended. The cleansing fires of destruction will  _ **_purge_ ** _ this Universe and all of  _ **_Her_ ** _ insipid Creations from existence and restore reality’s true balance _ .”

As if to emphasise his impassioned words, the ground shook violently and Aziraphale watched as thin cracks began to form in the frozen sand.

With a dramatic gesture Abyss tucked in his right wing, the massive black-feathered limb whispering like cold air as it shifted. Instead of the flaming foundations of the Tower it revealed a doorway. At least it looked like a doorway. Despite the bloody flames licking its edges it remained a solid and unrelenting black.

Lowering the sword, Abyss looked to Eros again, something akin to softness touching those inscrutable black eyes.

“ _ Or, it will, once you return to me. _ ”

Eros took a step back, blank horror creasing her face, _“_ _ What ?” _

Abyss blinked, “ _ You think I achieved this on my own? How very flattering, Sister, though misguided. Our dear Siblings have proven invaluable, more so than they already were. _ ”

Aziraphale watched with mounting terror as Eros’ face went as white as a sheet, “No, they would not-  _ could _ not…”

“ _ Oh, don’t mistake me, they fought it at first. They fought me. Like you, they insisted I must have lost my mind. But I triumphed in the end and now their power feeds my own. _ ” Abyss seemed to be enjoying Eros’ distress.

Eros took another step forward, her wings fluttering uncertainly behind her, “Brother, please tell me you didn’t…”

Abyss’ smile faded slightly, “ _ I did what  _ **_I_ ** _ had to, Sister. I needed to keep them safe, from themselves if necessary, so I did. Now you are all that is left _ .”

He lifted the sword again and gestured to the doorway in the Tower, the flames pulsing violently in reaction to his movement and painting the weapon in bloody strokes of red.

_ “ Come back to me, return to your family. Let this world, this Universe, be wiped away! ” _

Eros’ power flared again, her terror just as palpable in the charged air as her rage, “No!”

Abyss frowned, “ _ This world will be destroyed regardless. Come to me willingly and I promise I will make their ends swift and painless _ ,” He turned his gaze on Crowley and smiled, gently caressing the demon’s cheek with one bloodstained finger, “ _ For old time’s sake _ .”

Aziraphale bit his lip, the flaming sword shaking in his grip, a sudden burst of fury igniting in his soul. Only Crowley’s terrified expression and the dangerous proximity of the sword to the demon’s face kept him from moving.

Eros took another step forward, “Brother, please! We can still fix this! We can still stop this!”

Abyss paused and Aziraphale barely had time to brace himself as the red exploded back into those black wings and the Tower roared with fury.

“ _ You still love  _ **_them_ ** _ more than me, don’t you? You love this- this  _ **_filth_ ** _ more than your own Brother!” _

Aziraphale winced at the achingly loud scream and was only mildly relieved when the rage and the storm quieted, Abyss seemingly coming back to his senses.

Then he smiled, “ _ So be it, Sister. If you will not come to me of your own free will, then you will follow  _ **_him_ ** _. _ ”

Eros’ eyes widened, “Abyss no-!”

With a smile, Abyss tossed Crowley into the doorway, the demon’s broken wing twisting as he fell once more.

Aziraphale felt his blood freeze in his veins.

Crowley shrieked in startled terror after he passed the threshold and then disappeared altogether, his scream cut off by the cacophony of lightning and thunder as the storm broke free from the spell.

“CROWLEY!” Aziraphale felt his heart stutter, his nerves suddenly flaring back to life and desperation overruling the caution that had just barely restrained him before.

But he wasn’t quick enough.

An explosion of energy by his side knocked him to the ground and by the time he recovered Eros was gone, the last remnants of her power disappearing through the hole in the Tower. Approaching the door sent all kinds of warning bells ringing as his very soul shivered at the sight of the bottomless dark in front of him, but Aziraphale just gripped the hilt of the sword tighter and tried to push through the fear. 

He barely managed to dodge the attack in time.

Blinking in surprise, Aziraphale found himself face-to-face with Gabriel, the aura of Abyss absent and leaving nothing behind except searing hatred. The corpse snarled and lifted the sword again only to be violently shoved away.

Beelzebub rushed to Aziraphale’s side, shaking with rage and exhaustion but growling incessantly.

“Go!” They yelled over the roar of the storm and the Tower, their chitinous armour turning glossy under the unceasing rain.

Aziraphale blinked and noticed the two Archangels had also risen to their feet, their captors having been blasted back by the shockwave, and were fiercely battling Lucifer, the Metatron, and an army’s worth of corpses; the battle illuminated by both the Tower and the myriad of cracks opening up in the ground spewing their own scarlet flames. Beelzebub snarled fiercely as Gabriel recovered enough to swing his sword which the Prince batted away with one chitinous claw.

“You’ll all be killed!” Aziraphale shouted back.

Beelzebub grinned, the expression in no way reflecting the storm of blinding anger in their eyes, “We’ll be fine!” They blocked yet another vicious swing and the ground trembled violently, “Juzzt go and zzzave Crowley, and while you’re at it zzave the world too. You zzeem to be good at that.”

Aziraphale watched for just a moment more before he raced back to the doorway.

A million warnings raced through his mind at the threshold.

None of them mattered.

He let himself fall.

***

The barrier broke with a faint  _ snap _ .

In a way it was almost anticlimactic. Dagon barely felt it through the heavy fog of malice hovering around the house, but it was unmistakeable—like a protective blanket had just been ripped away. Dagon suppressed an uneasy shiver.

Then the silence fell once more. All she could hear was the steady and near-silent breathing of the humans behind her; other than that there wasn’t even the slight moan of the wind outside, just the gentle creak of floorboards as the cottage settled in the cold night air, as if the house itself was holding its breath.

Dagon swallowed down the small surge of fear in her gut and strained to hear something,  _ anything _ that would give even the slightest indication as to what the freak outside was planning.

Nothing.

Beside her, Dagon felt Hastur shift uneasily, the sound of his rough coat almost deafening in the silence. The nothingness was almost suffocating and Dagon half-wanted to growl just to break the quiet spell.

As the remains of the barrier finally settled, the magic dissipating safely away, Anathema peered out from her place beneath the windowsill.

“What are they waiting for?” She murmured under her breath. Dagon decided the silence must be magical because there was no way such a whisper was so loud.

The silence lasted for another beat before the window shattered.

The children scrambled backwards on reflex, Pepper holding out her little knife in a good approximation of a ready stance. A hand wielding a much larger knife waved wildly through the jagged hole in the window and then swung down. Just before it struck Anathema in the eye Newt pushed her aside and cried out in pain as the blade suddenly changed course and cut a bright red path from his jaw to the bridge of his nose, just barely missing his eye. A face had joined the groping hand in the window, but before Dagon had a chance to fully appreciate the ghastly visage leering through the glass a bright burst of holy light sent it shrieking back into the black void outside—the striking arm disappearing after it and leaving nothing but bloodstained glass behind.

Israfiel grimaced from where he had propped himself up, his raised hand trembling with the effort of the miracle, “That won’t slow them down for long.”

Dagon edged over to the window and narrowly dodged a kitchen knife as it barrelled through an unbroken window, the blade burying itself up to the hilt in the dull wallpaper and quivering there. She grimaced, “Yeah, no shit. Is Newt okay?”

Anathema gently placed a finger near the shallow cut and Newt flinched, “He’ll live but that was a cursed blade, I can’t heal it.”

Dagon’s grimace blossomed into a snarl, “Of course the blades are fucking cursed. Why the hell wouldn’t they be? Not like they’ll make this any harder…”

With a huff of determined air she spun on her heel and made for the bedroom door, “Only way out is downstairs, if we hurry we might get ahead of most of those fuckers behind the house, the front might be relatively clear.”

She received no argument, not that she really expected one.

The bedroom door opened silently, and Dagon gingerly stepped into the hall. When nothing happened the others slowly filed out after her, the Dukes bringing up the rear and Israfiel with the children. Every step sent creaks through the old wooden floor beneath the carpet.

Then another window shattered in the spare bedroom. Dagon stiffened and unconsciously bared her teeth, Israfiel behind her crouching slightly as if to guard the children with the wings he had yet to manifest. 

“Everybody get downstairs, now.” Dagon muttered, softly moving to the side and letting everyone but Israfiel pass—Pepper looked at her with unreadable eyes as they all moved towards the stairs.

Israfiel glanced meaningfully at the door to the spare bedroom and Dagon nodded, both taking care not to make the floorboards creak as they padded over to it. Adrenaline roaring in her ears, Dagon pushed the door open. The wan glow from outside spilled through the open curtains, the ragged cloth fluttering in the cold breeze blowing through the shattered window. The glass was stained red. Dagon took a step forward and then narrowly missed having her head chopped off by an axe as one of the corpses leapt from its hiding place. The thing hissed in her face as she leaned away—it’s breath as cold as the wind blowing through the window. Dagon hissed just as venomously back, one clawed hand tearing a neat and devastating chunk out of the thing’s throat, splattering the tasteless wallpaper with a fine scarlet spray and nearly decapitating the once mortal body. It collapsed at her feet, the axe clattering to the ground.

Israfiel scowled at the weapon, “Cursed, like that knife.”

Dagon grimaced and wiped a few stray spots of blood from her cheek with the back of her clean hand, “Great.”

A scrabbling at the window had her claws outstretched again and the soft flare of angelic magic by her side explained the sudden appearance of Israfiel’s shimmering wings. The soft  _ scritch-scritch _ of nails against stone soon explained itself when a head appeared in the window, its lipstick covered lips stretched in a feral smile. Israfiel blasted it back with another flash of white light but the scrabbling scratching didn’t stop. Another head appeared where the last one had been, a young man with stubble, empty eyes, and bloodstained teeth reaching into the room, heedless of the razor-sharp glass slicing into his palms. Again, the corpse was sent reeling into the dark with a flick of Israfiel’s wrist and again the head was replaced. But it wasn’t alone. The scrabbling noise grew louder and no matter how many times Israfiel blasted them back, more kept coming. A few managed to dodge his attacks and had to be struck down by Dagon.

Dagon could sense Israfiel getting weaker, his every miracle straining the limited supply of energy he had been left with in the wake of Heaven’s destruction. If he kept this up, he was going to discorporate through sheer exhaustion.

_ Fuck it _ .

Grabbing Israfiel’s arm, Dagon hauled him into the corridor, slamming the wooden door behind them and locking it with the simple application of some of her own infernal energy. The corpses on the other side began pounding on the thin bit of wood almost immediately but the infernal spell held firm.

“We can’t- we can’t let them get any further, Dagiel!”

Dagon stiffened and glanced at Israfiel, incredulity flashing through her veins. Israfiel was soaked in sweat and was dangerously pale, his green eyes slightly glazed with over-exertion.

The pounding on the door was getting louder.

Swallowing down the sick feeling in her throat, Dagon nodded, “I’ll hold them off for as long as I can, you get downstairs and protect the humans.”

Israfiel blinked, some clarity returning to his eyes, “You’ll be killed.”

Dagon shrugged, “And if these fucks get downstairs I’ll die anyway, they need an angel down there to protect them. We don’t even know if downstairs is safe. Least I can do is make sure they don’t get reinforcements.”

Israfiel shook his head, “No, that isn’t- I can’t let you-!”

Dagon rolled her eyes, “I’m staying, Israfiel,  _ you  _ need to do your job and protect those kids. If that  _ thing  _ out there gets hold of Adam or makes him freak out by getting one of his friends, then we might as well kill ourselves right now. Save the freak out there the trouble.”

Israfiel’s white wings fluttered uncertainly, some of the feathers speckled with dark red, but before he could reply the sound of another window shattering cut him off. The sound was muffled and seemed to be coming from the kitchen, the noise quickly followed by a bellow of rage that could have only come from Hastur.

Dagon felt a few more scales grow out on her face and she glanced at the door, which was beginning to strain under the rabid assault of the corpses behind it, before facing Israfiel, “Help them. I’ll stop these idiots.”

Israfiel hesitated for a moment, frustration evident on his face, before he turned and raced downstairs—taking the soft glow of his wings with him. Dagon sighed as the warmth he had given off also disappeared. The thudding was suddenly accompanied by cracking as the door gave way and all thoughts of warmth and soft light were replaced with far more practical ones.

The first corpse to break through the door and shatter the spell—that had been desperately trying to hold the wood shut—was also the first to have its throat torn out. The second one, brown hair still artfully scraped back from it’s face in a severe businesswoman style, was kicked with enough force to cave in her chest and send her skidding down the hallway towards the master bedroom. Dagon barely had time to stand straight again before the next corpse came through the narrow doorframe, this one having enough time to raise the cursed steak knife it wielded. Dagon hissed as the blade sliced a shallow cut across her shoulder, the wound stinging as the curse fought her natural urge to miracle it closed, and the corpse paid for it with a swift decapitation. 

It didn’t take long for Dagon to start feeling an ominous burning in the muscles of her arms and legs and it didn’t look as though the tide of corpses was lessening any. In fact, they were even coming in through the master bedroom door but were finding it slightly harder to reach her given that the corridor was littered with bodies. The sounds of a brutal fight from downstairs had only got louder as time passed and Dagon could occasionally feel the odd charged feeling of human magic being used and the resulting scent of burning hair.

A sharp pain in her side made her recoil. A fork was half-buried in the flesh there with just the handle visible and the corpse who had slipped past her defences now leapt for her throat, blood-encrusted fingernails scrabbling at the scales that now completely coated it. Dagon hissed again, her own bloody claws scratching at the attacking body with the fury of a tiring animal. She stepped back under the extra weight, occupied with dodging the blades of any more opportunistic corpses, still fighting off the older-looking corpse with its greying hair and empty eyes.

She took another step back and suddenly there wasn’t anything under her feet. On instinct, Dagon curled up as much as she was able with a still furious cadaver fighting to crush her throat and braced for the impact. The landing probably managed to break a rib but also managed to knock the corpse off, though the roll down the rest of the stairs was both unavoidable and utter agony as it jostled the cutlery still embedded deep in her side. 

The noise and smell of magic was more powerful now and Dagon took heart in that she could still sense that much. That meant she wasn’t dead. Or at least not dead yet.

The taste of blood was overwhelming, and Dagon suspected she might have cut her tongue on one of her own incisors. Sitting up hurt far more than it should have done, and the prongs twisted slightly as she moved, the burn of the metal making her grit her teeth. The twinge in her chest indicated that perhaps more than one rib had been broken and she was momentarily grateful that she didn’t need to breathe. That didn’t stop a huff of air escaping her throat when a heavy weight tackled her back to the floor. The corpse’s old face loomed into view and Dagon bit back a curse as it scrabbled to get hold of her neck again. Asphyxiation might not be much of a problem, but a broken neck would discorporate her as readily as having it sliced open.

Growling low in her throat, Dagon pushed back against the corpse who had a grip like a steel trap. It managed to keep it from squeezing too tight but the burn in her arms was rather telling of exactly how long she’d be able to keep it up.

Then the corpse let go and Dagon saw what had distracted it. The handle of a small kitchen knife protruded from the corpse’s shoulder, still quivering from the throw, and the moment’s relief was all Dagon needed to push the corpse up and break its neck with a short, sharp tug. The body fell bonelessly on top of her and her remaining ribs creaked ominously. With a grunt of effort, she managed to roll the limp thing off her and then got a good look at her saviour.

She raised an eyebrow incredulously, “Pepper?”

The little girl smiled nervously back, “Hey, I heard you fall, thought you might’ve needed help.”

Dagon smiled grimly, “You could say that. Was that your knife?”

Pepper nodded and shuffled over to help Dagon to her feet, the demon biting her lip as the movement sent about sixteen rib pieces rubbing together.

“How’d you get away from the others?” Dagon asked, leaning a little against the tiny girl.  


Pepper grinned, “It wasn’t too difficult. Fighting gets confusing so it wasn’t hard to slip away, and the monsters were too focused on the grown-ups to care much about me.”

Dagon nodded and glanced at the corpse laying face-down on the now-stained carpet, “It was a good throw.”

Pepper looked pleased, “The others are in the kitchen, we should probably get back.”

“Yeah we-” Dagon broke off mid-sentence and pulled Pepper close to her chest. The little girl squeaked in surprise and just managed to avoid the blade as it was thrown from the staircase. Dagon hugged the shaking human close to her chest and momentarily forgot all about the cursed fork in her side and the various other injuries that were draining her strength at the moment. She growled and took a step back as the veritable horde practically threw themselves down the stairs in their eagerness to get to her. A sudden cry of alarm from behind her in the kitchen’s direction and a flash of white in her peripheral vision made her flinch, the sudden twitch all that saved her from a knife to the eye.

Then, for the second time, an explosion rocked Jasmine cottage to its foundations, except this time it didn’t level it or even damage the walls. A bright burst of Heavenly energy ripped through the place and Dagon braced for it to throw her back and was only mildly surprised when it didn’t. Instead the corpses collapsed, no longer falling over one another in a deliberate attempt to get downstairs but falling limply to the ground simply because of gravity.

Dagon blinked.

There were none left.

For a brief, fleeting second, she could feel the protective barrier again and then it disintegrated for good.

“What the fuck…?” Dagon muttered; the sudden silence much more welcome than it had been before.

Hastur stumbled out of the kitchen, blood splattered over a good half of his old coat and still holding the now very bloodied hellish blade in his hand. When he saw Dagon the grimace softened slightly, “You’re alive.”

Dagon grinned back, “So are you. Everyone else make it too?”

Hastur nodded, “Yeah, excepting a few cuts and bruises we’re all good. You’ve got a fork in you, by the way.”

Dagon laughed, the sound turning into a groan as the vibrations jostled the broken ribs, “Yeah, I noticed. Got it as a parting gift.”

Hastur chuckled, “Either of you seen Israfiel? I thought I saw him in the fight back there, but he disappeared before whatever that explosion was.”

Dagon blinked and let go of Pepper who just moved to hold her hand instead. Sudden realisation was enough to make her gasp which made her chest hurt even more. Gently leaning on Pepper, Dagon hobbled over to the doorway into the living room.

The ward circle was gone. All that was left was a few blotches of soot on the wooden floor and the crumpled body of Israfiel with just the faintest tingle of angelic magic still clinging to it.

“He gave up all his Grace to power the circle…” Dagon whispered. To her faint surprise, seeing the angel’s body hurt. A lot.

Behind her she heard Hastur grunt, “Lucky he did, wouldn’t have been able to hold out much longer anyway. So now what?”

Dagon blinked again but gave no answer. Instead she limped forward a few more steps and crouched down, gently placing her hand on Israfiel’s shoulder. The flames caught instantly and burned so bright it hurt her eyes. It barely took any time at all for only ash to remain and Dagon stood back up with a wince.

At Hastur’s surprised look, she shrugged, “He was a good warrior. It’d be an insult to make him fight for that fucking freak out there.”

Hobbling into the kitchen was more painful than Dagon expected and by the time she reached the door Hastur was having to support her full weight. Weirdly, Pepper was still holding her hand, but Dagon chose not to question it.

The kitchen was an absolute mess but at least the lights were still off. The lack of light helping Dagon ignore the things squishing underfoot. Ligur was waiting with the rest of the humans; looking about as bad as Hastur except for a long and still-weeping wound on his collarbone, his eyes a chillingly bright yellow. Everyone else seemed fine, even Newt whose wound was still being treated by Anathema.

Adam stepped forward, the small form of Dog hovering protectively around his ankles, and took in the sight of Dagon and Pepper, concern creasing in his brow and red shimmering dully in his blue eyes.

“You’re hurt,” He said, rather bluntly.

Dagon grinned weakly, “So everyone keeps telling me.”

Adam gently placed a hand next to the instrument in her side and Dagon bit back a pained whimper as it wriggled out on its own and clattered to the floor. The boy's face screwed up with concentration and Dagon felt a brief flare of appropriately infernal energy before the wound in her side closed completely and a few of her ribs got it in their heads that they really shouldn’t be broken.

Everything still hurt but now it hurt a lot less than it had done.

Adam smiled, “Better?”

Dagon, very willing to not look an infernal gift-horse in the fanged mouth, just smirked, “I’ve been worse.”

Anathema stepped forward, hands still glowing a faint purple with traces of magic, and glasses miraculously clean, “Do we have a plan of escape or do we hold out here?”

Dagon shook her head, “We stay here we’re going to die. We could probably hold out for a while but Israfiel’s trick with the ward circle was a one-use only. Only way we stay ahead of Abyss is if we keep moving. And, unfortunately, none of us have wings.”

Anathema quirked an eyebrow, “’Israfiel’s trick’? What do you mean? Where is he?”

Dagon grimaced, “Gone. Gave the circle what was left of his heavenly power and killed the corpses, but killed himself in the process.”

Anathema gasped, “Oh my…”

Dagon sighed, “He bought us time so we shouldn’t waste it.”

Newt frowned, “But if you guys can’t fly, how are we going to escape those… things.”

“You do have a car, don’t you?” Dagon asked, Newt blushed.

“Well- well yes but it isn’t really suited for more than three people at a time…”

Dagon rolled her eyes, “Well it better be suited today. You’re taking the kids and Anathema and getting the hell out of here. Crowley told me she can hide her aura and I’m willing to bet Adam’s got more than enough power to keep you all hidden.”

Pepper squeezed her hand, “What about you?”

Ligur huffed, "I'm guessing we're going to stay here as a distraction."  


Dagon shrugged, "Unless you'd rather snuff it in a field, this place is as good as any to die."

Adam frowned, “No. That’s not fair.”

Dagon raised an eyebrow, “None of this is fair.”

A small smile curved the ex-Antichrist’s lips, “It’s not fair to leave you behind when we can take you with us.”

The sudden throaty roar of an engine interrupted the quiet, a roar that was accompanied with the soft sound of a car radio playing Queen. Heedless of the pain it sent shooting through her legs, Dagon raced to the front door just in time to watch a sleek black Bentley emerge from the mist on the road and park in front of the cottage.

Dagon had seen the Bentley before but usually Crowley was driving it. This time there was no one in the driver’s seat and all the doors opened on their own. Adam appeared beside her, wearing a rather satisfied smile.

“I called it here,” He said by way of an explanation though it explained very little. Pepper appeared on Dagon’s other side; her little warm hand clenching Dagon’s cold one tightly in her grip.

“That thing can fit all of us in it?” Dagon asked, her breath instantly fogging in the freezing night air.

Adam shrugged, “Not usually, but it can now.”

Stepping outside, Dagon could just see a sliver of the moon through the clouds obscuring the sky. The cloying mist drifting through the air meant it wasn’t long before the freezing droplets had embedded themselves firmly in her hair and clothes.

Hastur blinked in the cold air, his hand also instinctively finding Ligur’s, “Isn’t that Crowley’s car?”

Adam looked pleased, “Yep.”

The young ex-Antichrist took off at a dead-run with Dog, obviously aiming for the front-seat but before he reached it a figure emerged from the foggy gloom and, before he could stop, Adam ran right into it.

… and passed  _ through _ it.

Dagon paused, befuddled. Adam picked himself up from the gravel driveway and looked up at the figure in confusion, Dog looking up at it with tiny teeth bared and hackles raised. Stepping closer Dagon saw that it was a woman in her late thirties with short brown hair and brown skin. Something about her seemed familiar but what was a bit more alarming was that she was hovering a slight inch or two above the ground and happened to be slightly see-through.

Ligur stepped forward as well and passed a hand right through her stomach. The woman didn’t react much, just blinked and continued staring blankly ahead.

Hastur swore, “It's one of those nuns from that chatty cult we set up about thirty years ago, remember? Sister Mary something-or-other.”

“ _ Loquacious. _ ” The woman said blankly, “ _ Hodges now, actually _ .”

Dagon waved a hand in front of the ghost’s face, but she only continued to stare ahead, her eyes a milky white.

An idea popped into Dagon’s head, “Have you seen a guy in black around here somewhere? Tall, skull for a face?”

The ghost cocked her head to the side slightly, as if contemplating the question, “ _ Yes. Rather queer if you ask me. There I was almost run over by a Ford, chased by a bunch of knife-wielding hooligans and then he shows up beside me and tells me to stay where I am, then he vanishes. It was awfully strange. I must have hit my head or something. _ ”

“So, the crafty bastard is keeping them  _ here _ …” Dagon muttered.

“What? Who’s keeping what here?” Asked Anathema, eyes still riveted on the hovering blank-eyed ghost.

“Azrael. Azrael’s stopping souls from going Up or Down because there  _ is no _ Up or Down anymore. He’s keeping them from Abyss. Clever bastard.” Dagon explained, an appreciative smirk forming on her lips. 

Ligur snorted, blue flashing in amongst the yellow of his eyes for a moment, “Bet that’s making Abyss real happy.”

The ghost blinked again, “ _ The queer bloke told me to give you a message. That’s why I came here… I think. _ ”

Dagon’s smirk faded, “Message?”

“ _ He told me to tell you that they’re losing the battle at Babylon. That they need help. Though I have no idea what that means. _ ”

Dagon felt a little more of the blood in her veins freeze, “Michael’s  _ losing?” _

It didn’t really seem possible. Pepper squeezed her hand again.

Adam frowned, “But we can help them.”

Anathema sighed, “We do have the Bentley, Adam, but Babylon is a very long way away, we’ll never get there in time.”

Adam’s frown deepened, “Auntie Eros got there. I can get there too.” With a determined look in his blue eyes, Adam turned and hopped into the driver’s seat, Dog leaping into his lap. When he looked up again his eyes were glowing the colour of hellfire and he was smiling.

“Get in. We need to save our friends.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favourite chapters if I'm honest. I _love_ me a chatty and unstable villain. The dialogue and body language is just so damn fun to write!  
> And that scene with Crowley being thrown into the doorway like a snek ragdoll was one I rewrote almost five times. Every single time I reread this chapter I found something new to alter or to add. Also the whole second half with Dagon was, at once, a joy and a terror to write. It was really fun but at times I struggled for seemingly no reason.
> 
> Oh and, before you ask, yes what Aziraphale said before still applies. Ghosts _usually_ aren't a thing because its very, very rare for Azrael to miss a soul. They're only around now because Azrael's busily trying to keep as many souls from Abyss as he can.  
> I also just want to clarify that a cursed wound can't be miracled closed or magically healed, they have to heal on their own, which is why Anathema is struggling so much with Newt's wound (originally I was gonna have Newt just barely avoid the blade but then I realised I could give him an awesome scar so... eh, sorry Newt, its for the aesthetic).
> 
> Tomorrow, we finally enter the void and Aziraphale faces down the oldest (and arguably the most dangerous) being in the Universe.  
> (Aren't I a ray of sunshine today)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and thank you so much if you've commented, they really mean the world to me and I love reading your thoughts on my writing :)


	28. The Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final showdown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic depictions of injury and violence. Ye have been warned.

Pushing through the doorway was an odd sensation. Like breaking through the surface tension of water in slow motion. Once that barrier was breached all Aziraphale found on the other side was nothing. Just an empty void. 

That’s when he really started falling. 

The only indication that he was moving at all was the rush of freezing air whipping past his face as he plummeted into the black, the wind tearing harshly into his wings, so much so that he was barely able to control his descent. Desperately he glanced about himself, searching for Crowley or Eros and finding no trace of either. 

_ Oh Crowley, dear, where did he take you? _

Despite his best efforts, nothing revealed itself in the void below, just more limitless black; but, extending his awareness as far as it would go, Aziraphale caught the faint trace of something distinctly familiar and vaguely demonic. And it was far, far beneath him. 

Descending through the limitless bowels of this foul place proved extremely tricky. The wind, despite having no obvious point of origin, buffeted him from practically all sides—each new gust stronger and more biting than the last. Aziraphale eventually had to descend by repeatedly letting himself fall then catching himself rather than anything even resembling a controlled descent. It was during one of these falls that the ground made itself known. Catching himself at the last minute with his wings spread wide, Aziraphale turned the crash into a crash-landing and tumbled slightly as he hit the surface. 

Wings shaking with exhaustion and limbs twitching with fading pain, Aziraphale pushed himself up into a sitting position, careful to avoid using the flaming sword as a crutch. The ground he sat on was completely indistinguishable from everything else, a solid black as smooth as polished glass but not slippery and, strangely, was neither warm nor cool. The only thing that indicated it was there at all was the simple pressure Aziraphale felt when he pressed his palm more firmly into it. As with most things related to the monster that had kidnapped Crowley, it made him shudder. 

At least the wind had died away down here, though the air was still far too chilly for the angel's liking.  


Taking in a shaky breath, Aziraphale glanced around for Crowley again, straining his angelically enhanced sight for any sign of the demon. Igniting the sword did little to illuminate the dark but the dancing tongues of flame that coated the blade were, at least, a small comfort. It was the only conventional source of light around despite the fact that Aziraphale could still see his hand in front of his face without it lit; even the doorway far, far above him, so far away it resembled a distant star, didn’t seem to add to the illumination. 

The ground itself had no reflection and, if anything, seemed to  _ absorb _ the light the sword emitted. 

Aziraphale swallowed nervously, ordering his racing heart to calm itself. Stretching out his awareness again he caught that spark that felt like Crowley. A smidgen of hope arose in his chest when the spark was not below him but somewhere to his right. Not very far, either. 

Allowing a small smile to curve his lips, Aziraphale placed his palm back on the eerie surface and tried to push himself upright. 

And paused. 

Far beneath him, Aziraphale felt the unmistakable presence of a  _ soul _ . 

The soul wasn’t alone. Now that he knew to look for it beneath the impossible floor, more and more appeared, as if attracted by his attention. A legion lay beneath him, consisting of human, demon, and angel alike. Aziraphale couldn’t tell how far down they all were but he could tell that something was wrong. 

They were all dormant. 

Reaching out again, Aziraphale managed to brush the minds of those floating far below him, but they did not respond. Occasionally one would twitch with a sudden but very brief spark of awareness, almost stretching back to greet him in turn, before something forced them back down into sleep. 

Then something flared and did not die down. Instinctively, Aziraphale reached for the bright spark, pressing his palm flat against the solid dark as if he could reach through and catch the light in his hands. The spark brought with it a sense of familiarity and Aziraphale gasped. 

_ Israfiel... _

The soul of Israfiel pulsed weakly from where it lay  behind the blank, dark wall  beneath his palm . Aziraphale swallowed and felt his heart constrict. 

“Oh, something terrible happened, didn’t it? And you paid the price...” His voice sounded hollow in the emptiness of this place and it echoed away, transforming into an endless whisper in the dark. A quick search brought back no trace of Dagon’s soul, or that of Hastur and Ligur. Aziraphale felt the sorrow alleviate slightly. 

He smiled, “You saved them, didn’t you? At least there is that, right?” 

He felt briefly silly, he was practically talking to himself, until Israfiel’s soul pulsed with a brief flare of power and the dark ground warmed, like a hand had been placed on the other side. It said nothing but Aziraphale got the brief, tangible feeling of hope.  _ Safe _ , it seemed to say,  _ I kept them safe _ . 

It brought a fragile smile to his face. 

Placing his palm flat against the ground, Aziraphale let his own feelings of gratitude flow past the wall. Then Israfiel’s light dimmed, sputtered for a moment, and faded. No amount of willing his awareness past the wall brought the feeling back and Aziraphale was left alone. If anything, the dark was even more oppressive now than it had been before and he fought the sudden surge of despair in his heart. 

Gritting his teeth, Aziraphale pushed himself back to his feet, the despair draining the second he pulled his hand away from the ground. The flicker of Crowley on the edge of his awareness was still there and, as he started moving towards it, it got brighter—like a beacon in the dark.

Then he spotted something before him that wasn’t pitch black. This black had the shiny quality of recently wet leather and was accompanied by a bright splash of red hair. Aziraphale started running. The closer he got, the stronger that feeling of Crowley became, the familiar presence once more making itself comfortable in its usual spot in Aziraphale’s soul. Dropping to his knees and letting the flaming sword fall from his grasp, Aziraphale gathered Crowley up in his arms, mindful of the demon’s poor wings and the many other wounds that still had not healed. 

Crowley moved in his arms. 

Aziraphale felt tears gather in his eyes and he let them fall as he hugged Crowley to his chest, a low, wordless sound of utter relief shuddering from his lips. The demon’s lanky arms encircled his neck and Aziraphale smiled widely, kissing his still-damp scarlet locks, inhaling the scent of smoke and sandalwood—the smell of home, of safety, of bus rides and picnics and perfect country rides in the Bentley. 

“Aziraphale...?” Crowley murmured, his tired golden eyes glowing alight with wondrous surprise in that way that made Aziraphale’s heart squeeze tenderly. 

“Hello Crowley.” Aziraphale said, smiling gently.

A weak grin broke across Crowley’s face, “Am I dreaming? Mussst be...” 

Aziraphale laughed softly, “No, no you’re not dreaming, dear. I’m here. I’m real.” 

Crowley laughed, the sound turning into a groan as he jostled his broken wing. In a flash all levity seemed to drain away and Aziraphale hurriedly expended some energy into the grievous wound Abyss had inflicted. The bone was badly splintered with several shards poking out through the tender flesh of the limb and it radiated a biting agony. The pulse of power was enough to quiet the pain but before Aziraphale could do any more, Crowley grabbed his hand.

“Aziraphale, stop.”

The angel blinked in surprise, “But… But you’re hurt! We need to get out of here, get back to the others and-”

“Aziraphale.” The sharper tone in the demon’s voice put a stop to the panic that had briefly taken him and Aziraphale shut his mouth. Crowley continued, “Aziraphale there’s no point tiring yourself out, we can’t get out of here. He won’t let you go.” 

Aziraphale paused, “What?”

“Abyss won’t let you leave, Aziraphale. He doesn’t let  _ anybody _ leave.”

Another twinge of fear wriggled into Aziraphale’s heart and he paled, “Crowley, where’s Eros?”

Crowley grimaced, “Gone. He took her before I came to. Not too sure why he hasn’t finished me off yet, could’ve just killed me with the fall from the doorway,” His grin was faint, “Though I s’pose that wouldn’t be dramatic enough for him.”

Aziraphale smiled weakly, “So what do we do? How do we fight him?”

Crowley pushed himself up with difficulty, leaning heavily on Aziraphale, until he was almost sitting up, “We don’t.”

Aziraphale knew he must have looked surprised and he truly was, but Crowley wasn’t done. Carefully he leaned forward, looking almost as though he were leaning on Aziraphale for support as he whispered in the angel’s ear.

“I’ve got a plan, angel, but I need you to keep the bastard talking. I need as much time as you can give me, alright?” He murmured and Aziraphale gave a tiny nod.

Leaning back slightly, Crowley grinned properly, almost looking like his old self beneath the blood and the bruises, “If we survive this, I’ll buy lunch, yeah?”

Aziraphale smiled back, wiping at his eyes with his stained coat sleeve, “We’ll split the bill, my dear.”

Crowley’s eyes sparkled with that ever-familiar humour. Then that spark faded, and he looked so incredibly tired. At Aziraphale’s look of panic, Crowley smiled again, “Don’t worry ‘bout me, yeah? I’ll be fine, just… jussst stick… ssstick to the plan, yeah? I’ll be… I’ll…” Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut, his aura dimming with exhaustion but resolutely not going out. Aziraphale felt a tear roll down his cheek but he ignored it as he kissed the demon’s forehead and gently laid him back down, careful not to lay him directly on his broken wing.

Brushing a stray scarlet hair away from the sleeping demon’s face, Aziraphale smiled. The scene could have been one of domestic bliss had they both been uninjured and not trapped in this forbidding place. It was almost peaceful.

Then the flaming sword went out.

Startled, Aziraphale reached out to grab the blade’s handle but found it gone. It had disappeared, almost as if the very ground had swallowed it whole.

A chilling laugh echoed throughout the emptiness, effortlessly slicing through the eerie silence. Aziraphale felt his wings puff up defensively but his hand felt desperately empty without the sword.

“ _ Now that was truly touching, Aziraphale, _ ” Abyss said, a hint of a smile in his foul voice, “ _ So very human of you, selflessly following your demon into danger in order to rescue him. It brings a tear to my eye. _ ”

Aziraphale fought back a growl threatening to escape his throat as he cast his eyes about, searching desperately for the source of the voice. It sounded as if it were coming from every direction.

Crowley’s words still echoed in his head,  _ keep him talking _ .

“Show yourself!” Aziraphale shouted, impressing even himself as he managed to keep any waver of terror out of his voice.

Abyss chuckled, the sound emanating from nowhere and everywhere at once, “ _ I am already here, Aziraphale. _ ”

A sound like rustling cloth made Aziraphale look behind him but he saw nothing but more limitless black. The laughter continued until Aziraphale felt a cold pressure on his shoulder, he spun around but saw nothing.

“Stop playing Abyss! You don’t scare me!” Aziraphale had never lied so well in his life and he almost believed his own words; he would have had his heart not been pounding so loudly in his ears.

Evidently Abyss wasn’t convinced either, “ _ Oh, I think I do, Guardian of the Eastern Gate. I think I terrify you more than you care to admit. But you needn’t be ashamed of that fear, it’s natural to be afraid of the dark. Though I expected you would be used to that, after all to be a **coward** is to always be afraid. _ ”

The flash of anger that ignited in Aziraphale surprised him as much as it apparently surprised Abyss. Aziraphale knew he was not truly a fighter at heart but he also knew he had been Created as a Guardian and for Abyss to outright call him a  _ coward _ infuriated that integral part of himself so much he had to physically clench his fists in order to keep himself from lashing out at the empty air.

Anger would just get him killed faster and Crowley needed more time.

The air suddenly became even colder and Aziraphale blinked, his anger cooling as fast as his fear grew. In front of him the darkness solidified, a tangible shape growing from the black itself. 

He looked like a corpse. Bone-white skin was pulled taut over jutting cheekbones and his eyes were sunken, completely void of any colour—twin pools of darkness in his white face. Short, messy, jet-black hair framed it and his skeletal hands were stained black up to the elbows like they had been dipped in coal dust. Clutched in one blackened hand was the flameless sword, it’s silver blade shimmering delicately. Six enormous black wings fluttered behind him, only visible because they were somehow even blacker than the void and they matched the deep darkness of his robes.

Abyss grinned and Aziraphale was surprised he did not faint as the ancient being’s face contorted into what he must have thought a smile ought to look like.

“There’s Her little warrior,” He crooned, his voice somehow even worse than before, “I was wondering if that show in Babylon was just circumstantial. That maybe your little demon was the only reason you fought as you did, but I am glad I was wrong.”

In the time it took to blink, Abyss vanished and reappeared right next to Aziraphale. The angel hastily stumbled backwards, careful to move away from Crowley’s motionless form.

Abyss’ smile didn’t waver, “I’m wrong a lot when it comes to you, you know? More often than not you surprise me. And I want you to appreciate how difficult that is to do. Even with all the experience a being like me could have, and my Brother’s power to predict the future, you are difficult to anticipate. Though I suppose I always forgot to factor Love into the equation.”

Aziraphale swallowed thickly, “What could you possibly know about love?” 

Abyss’ smile morphed smoothly into a grin, “Much more than you, Aziraphale, I assure you. You were created by Her to love but you don’t even know what that is. You never have. Creatures like you have only the vaguest notion about my Sister. You restrict her with your simplistic definitions, you speak about losing her as casually as you might lose a material object, but you have never  _ lost  _ her, not like I have.”

The smile faded, replaced with a look of fierce anger, “My beautiful Sister was torn from me when She ripped Her children asunder with Her arrogance. My sweet little Love was in agony after the Fall and that agony drove her to Hell, drove her to her futile quest to heal those creatures of their agony so that she might heal herself. And I thought then that I had lost Love forever, that She had stolen her away, that my dearest Sister had become yet another casualty in that War of Hers. You will never comprehend that agony. Never. My Sister is the purest light I have ever known, love itself incarnate, but she gave that light away to the  _ demons _ , to the  _ angels _ , to  _ humans _ !” He spat the names like venom, his wings glowing a deep burnished red.

Aziraphale swallowed hard but stepped forward, “And yet you murdered her to take her power!” 

Abyss snarled and Aziraphale froze, the tip of the flameless sword quivering bare millimetres from his throat. The red began to fade but the sword didn’t waver, “I  _ saved  _ her, Aziraphale! I saved her from her own mistakes, as I have all of my Siblings! She could not see past her own love for creatures like you. But I know that love was a lie, she lost her family and sought a replacement, refusing to see how that replacement tainted her. You have seen her scars, had she not been blinded by her own nature, she would have forsaken you all for the worthless creatures you are!” 

The last of the red faded away and the grin grew again, mirthless and cold, “And I did not kill her, I merely destroyed that broken shell she inhabited. She lives on within me, Aziraphale. She will be with me for the rest of eternity as will all my Siblings and she will be safe, and she will be happy.” 

Abyss’ blank eyes took on a distant look, the smile softening as he spoke. 

“I will keep her safe, at any cost.” 

“Safe?” Aziraphale repeated, “You call this safe? Imprisoning her, stealing her power so you can kill those she loves? How can you not see why she is so ashamed of you? You’re a monster!” 

The red flashed again and Aziraphale braced for the blade of his sword to slash through his throat, but the blow never came. Instead Abyss lowered the weapon, his expression almost contemplative.

“Did my Sister ever tell you the true tale of this Universe’s birth?” He asked, tilting his head to the side curiously, his wings returning to their pristine shade of nothing.

Aziraphale swallowed, “No, she… she never really talked about it.” 

Abyss smiled, “I suppose she wouldn’t. I was the first to exist, born here formless, shapeless. Utterly alone. Then my Siblings were born. Time, Wisdom, Justice, Love, Temperance, Wrath, Prudence, Faith, and Hope. And we were happy. We were naïve and innocent, utterly foolish, but we were happy.” A flash of silver bloomed in Abyss’ wings for a moment, carrying with it the brief feeling of hope, but it soon disappeared as his expression soured, “Then  _ She _ came. The eleventh being born into the Void. Despite knowing nothing, we knew She was no Sibling of ours though we welcomed Her anyway, eager for more company. But She was different. She was not pure like us, She was not gentle like Hope or kind like Love. She was arrogant, and selfish. After Her birth we discovered Her true power, Her ability to Create. It was not long before She named Herself God, before she declared Herself the most  _ powerful _ being in existence, the most  _ brilliant _ , the most  _ important _ .” Abyss seemed to get angrier with each word, the red steadily building in his wings until he stopped, the colour draining away in an instant. 

“We should have been more suspicious of Her,” He continued in a much softer voice, a voice heavy with memory, “But by the time I was, She had already betrayed us. Such was Her arrogance that when She saw fit to punish Her Creations for Rebellion against Her draconian rule, She decided Her rule extended over  _ us _ as well. I knew She cared little for what Her actions would do to us. She knew how we were connected to Her Universe, She  _ knew _ my Brothers and Sisters cared for Her little pets, and yet She did not care. So, when my Sister sought to end her suffering instead of enduring it, She gave up Her façade of friendship. We were pronounced Traitors and She sealed my Sister away, declaring her to be unholy, as infernal and wretched as those children She gave up on. And so deep was her prison, so faint was her presence, that I thought she had perished for her mistake. Then She banished us, fearful that we would seek retribution against Her.” 

Aziraphale felt his wings flutter with unease. His own memories of Before were still patchy but he did recall feeling something odd right after the Fall, as if someone had briefly tamped down his emotions. 

He shook his head clear, “I… I’m sorry, that must have been terrible…” 

Abyss chuckled, his own wings rustling in a breeze Aziraphale could not feel, “She was right to be fearful of me. Her Creations are a plague upon reality. Their petty squabbles and endless hatred hurt my Siblings to their core. When She betrayed us, She showed me the solution. The only way I could keep my family safe was if I rid us of Her and this Universe and returned reality to how it was before She perverted it with Her very existence.” 

Aziraphale felt sick but those three words flashed in his head again, so he pressed on, “She won’t just let you destroy Her, the Almighty always has a Plan.” 

Abyss raised an eyebrow, “Oh, I know, Aziraphale, and I am very much looking forward to that. She may have Her ineffable Plans, but so do I.” 

“Is that what the Tower is for, then?” Aziraphale asked, tentatively, “Is that part of your Plan?” 

Abyss cocked his head to the side, something akin to surprise widening his eyes, “Very good, Aziraphale. Your powers of observation are at least marginally more effective than your brethren. The Tower is indeed integral to my Plans.”

Mindful of the sword still dangling in Abyss’ grasp, Aziraphale took another step forward, “And you corrupted it, used its natural power for your own gain.”

Abyss’ pleased smile faded, “And you were doing so well. Yes, the Tower makes use of its inherent power along with the energy I provide but I did not corrupt it. I  _ built _ it.”

Aziraphale blinked, “You? But I thought the humans-?”

Abyss barked a sharp laugh, “You truly believe those creatures could come up with something like Babel? No, Aziraphale, I may have stayed out of the limelight for millennia, but I was hardly idle. They did build it, but only because I whispered a few choice suggestions in the ears of their petty little Kings. Promised a few minor favours, killed a few rivals, and construction was soon underway.” His black eyes flickered over to where Crowley still lay and amusement briefly crossed his face, “I daresay Crawley would find my methods admirable. Had I been a demon I might have even qualified for one of those ridiculous little commendations. Imagine that.”

Aziraphale fought the urge to argue against Abyss’ horrid assumption that Crowley would  _ ever _ approve of something like tricking an entire city into destroying itself, of putting defenceless children in danger for his own gain, so he instead focused on Babel.

“But God destroyed the Tower.”

Abyss sighed, “She did. An unfortunate reaction that was sadly unavoidable. I knew She would act like that, of course, so I had to take precautions. Set up safeguards. With the Metatron and Lucifer in my pocket after She abandoned you all, it was easy to keep everyone away whilst I fixed what Her temper broke. A good weapon is worth the effort needed to rebuild and no other construct was better placed or so conveniently avoided. Of course the destruction of Earth and the Universe itself is not as simple as rebuilding stone pillars and redrawing sigils. Such a feat requires power, power of the purest sort. Happily, I find myself with a plentiful supply."

Abyss started moving again, never taking his eyes off Aziraphale.

The angel swallowed delicately and gestured to the floor, “Is that what the souls are for?”

The pleased look returned, and Abyss nodded, “Well done, Aziraphale. And once the Tower has had its fill, I will take care of the rest.” His smile was almost gleeful, “After all, the destruction of a God is hardly easy, I’ll need a bit of a boost to get rid of Her completely.” 

Aziraphale felt faint but he pushed on, “So you manipulated  _ everything _ ? From the Beginning?”

Abyss grinned, “Of course. I have Wisdom to thank for so graciously letting me use his extraordinary foresight, but I also have my own ways of getting what I want.”

“And… what do you want?”

Abyss looked up, gazing at the speck of light far, far above, “Vengeance, Aziraphale. And then… then an eternity of rest.” 

He paused and when he turned back to look at Aziraphale the glint in his black eyes was enough to make the angel’s blood run cold. 

“Well,” He said, glancing down at the flameless sword he still wielded, “Do you think that was long enough?” 

Aziraphale blinked, “What?” 

Abyss raised a thin eyebrow in feigned surprise, “You’ve done an admirable job of hiding it Aziraphale, but did you really think I wouldn’t realise you’re stalling?” 

Aziraphale felt his heart stutter in his chest. Desperately, he tried to avert all his thoughts away from Crowley, “S-stalling?” He smiled nervously, “Why on earth would I be stalling-?” 

Abyss grinned, “An excellent question. Why  _ are _ you stalling?” He began to slowly walk in a wide leisurely circle around Aziraphale, forcing the angel to constantly shift to keep Abyss in his line of sight as he thoughtfully stroked his pale chin with one coal-black hand, “Why indeed? Not for yourself, of course, you are not so foolish. Perhaps for someone else’s sake?” 

Aziraphale couldn’t help a flinch and he just barely stopped himself from glancing in Crowley’s direction, but even that slight movement was enough to make Abyss’ eyes widen. 

“Ah, so who? Azrael perhaps? That poor child may have stood somewhat of a chance a few centuries ago, but he’s busied himself with preventing souls from leaving Earth. A futile exercise though I admire his determination. Your little protégé?” Abyss smirked, “Your Adam is proving himself to be quite unpredictable, I assume he learned that from you. I look forward to consuming his soul, probably not quite as satisfying as his infernal father’s, but that waits to be seen. Had he accepted his powers fully he may have been more problematic than he is amusing but, alas.” Abyss kept up his slow circling, his wings flowing behind him like a dark cape. Then he paused, an incredulous spark alighting in his eyes. 

“God?” He glanced at Aziraphale, cold mirth dancing in those black mirrors, “Now  _ that _ is a bit desperate, isn’t it? You still think She’ll come running to your rescue, don’t you? You still think She cares. You  _ still _ don’t comprehend Her betrayal properly, Aziraphale. Commendable though your loyalty may be, it has blinded you as often as my Sister blinded herself with her own love. How many times have you followed your loyalty rather than your heart?” 

Aziraphale swallowed hard and concentrated all his energy into keeping his mind blank and his heart still. Abyss studied his face intently, those inscrutable eyes searching for any weakness. 

“You say you love your demon, but can that love ever truly eclipse your loyalty to Her?” Abyss chuckled and disappeared again, reappearing right between Aziraphale and Crowley, “It’s almost ironic, really. Raphael loved Her but was betrayed by Her, cast Down, crushed beyond repair. And then the shell he became fell in love with you and _you_ crushed him still further by refusing to let go of your own worthless loyalty. I thought angels were meant to be  _ compassionate _ .” 

Aziraphale just barely kept himself from gasping. Abyss was still studying him intently and the silver sword was hovering just bare inches above Crowley’s motionless body. 

Aziraphale knew well enough that his own thoughtless loyalty had hurt Crowley in the past and Abyss’ accusation stung. What he really didn’t want Abyss to sense, however, was his shock. 

Crowley was Raphael. 

Aziraphale’s own memories of the Heaven of Before were patchy and incomplete, the stress of battle and death preventing him from exploring them much further, but he knew there happened to be a red-headed Archangel in a few of them. An Archangel with golden eyes. 

The revelation shouldn’t have been so shocking, in all honesty. Eros had immediately recognised Crowley the second she had seen him, and Raphael was the only Archangel Crowley had never insulted in those drunken rants of his. Aziraphale had assumed it was because the Archangel had once been a friend and the memory of his death was too painful. And, in a way, that was true. 

When a tiny feeling of betrayal wormed its way in with the shock, Aziraphale quashed it with nary a second thought. Abyss was still watching and still stalking in his slow circle, a few feathers of utmost black brushed over Crowley’s still form causing frost to curl in the demon’s hair. The surge of protectiveness was impossible to hide but it bolstered his resolve. No matter who Crowley had been before, he was still Crowley now, and the past wouldn’t matter one fucking bit if the future died today. He had failed Crowley before; he wasn’t going to fail him now. 

If Abyss was surprised by his lack of response to Raphael’s name, he didn’t show it, but instead kept moving in his slow circle. Abruptly he stopped and smiled slowly, almost gently, “It would be poetic, wouldn’t it? The absentee God swooping in at the very last moment, the moment where it would matter most, to save Her beloved Creations from the brink of oblivion. What a picture that would be!” 

Aziraphale could feel Abyss’ dark delight as he spoke, and it made him shudder. The conviction in those empty eyes was almost worse as Abyss turned to look at him again, “Though you must see such thoughts are mere fantasy. You really think I would not ensure She could not interfere with my Plans? And I thought you were so clever.” 

Aziraphale ignored the barb, instead focusing his mind on anything and everything that wasn’t Crowley. 

“I can sense your determination, Aziraphale,” Abyss intoned, “Not God, then. So, who?” 

His dark gaze found Aziraphale’s eyes again and the angel focused even harder on keeping his mind utterly blank. 

“A valiant effort, Aziraphale,” Abyss murmured and Aziraphale flinched as it was whispered next to his ear as Abyss seamlessly reappeared beside him, “Though wasted. I can sense your desperation as easily as I see you right now. And who lies in its crux.” 

Abyss leaned in closer, “Tell me,  _ angel _ ,” Aziraphale resisted the urge to shudder with revulsion at the use of the nickname, “What possessed you to think a little broken demon could ever stand against me?” 

Aziraphale swallowed hard, unable to help himself as he glanced in Crowley’s direction. The demon still had not moved and his black wings shimmered iridescently in the dark, reflecting whatever light they came into contact with and transforming it into greens and blues and purples. A surge of determination was enough to slip past his fear. 

“I have faith.” He did, Crowley had asked him to trust him. And that was exactly what Aziraphale planned to do. 

The sharp stab of cold laughter was painfully loud as Abyss stepped back, “No you don’t Aziraphale,  _ I _ have Faith, and my little Brother is in no position to give you  _ anything _ .” As if to accentuate his point, dark indigo flashed across Abyss’ feathers, the colour as rich and nuanced as Eros’ gold. 

“I’m not giving up,” Aziraphale said, utterly resolute though his heart was sinking with every passing second. 

Abyss smiled patiently, “Oh, Aziraphale, Crawley can’t help you. Nobody can. Don’t you understand?” He leaned in again and Aziraphale felt frost begin to form in his curls, “Nobody is coming to save you, not this time.” 

Aziraphale flinched as Abyss disappeared but the sense of dread only increased as Abyss reappeared beside Crowley, the silver sword just brushing the demon’s chest, easily slicing through his jacket. 

Aziraphale wasn’t even aware he had moved until he hissed in pain as the tip of the sword nicked his throat. Abyss smiled indulgently; the sword still pointed at the perfect angle to split Aziraphale’s neck with a little more pressure. But Aziraphale’s fear wasn’t for himself. 

“Don’t hurt him.” He said, his voice thin. 

Abyss’ smile faded, “I could kill you so easily right here and right now. I could end you with one simple _push_.” 

Aziraphale refused to close his eyes as he waited for the blow that was surely coming. 

It didn’t. 

Abyss grinned as Aziraphale blinked in surprise, “Now where’s the fun in that? I would not deny a warrior like you a warrior’s death, Aziraphale, and you have certainly earned a good death. You should be honoured; you and Raphael’s shadow have managed to become and remain a problem in my Plans, a rare thing. It is only right that I take care of you myself, and it is only fair you are able to try and defend yourself before the End.” 

Aziraphale still hadn’t been able to process his shock at not being beheaded two minutes ago but managed to catch the silver sword on reflex. The sword erupted into flames once more, the warm glow more than welcome as was its meagre heat. Aziraphale automatically adopted a ready stance, all his anger focusing itself in his muscles and fueling the flames of the blade. 

Abyss raised one blackened hand and closed his skeletal fingers around the silver hilt of a broadsword with a blade as black as obsidian. All the warning Aziraphale had was a slight quirk of Abyss’ lips before that pitch blade nearly slammed itself through his chest. Only his reflexes and a quick beat of his wings got Aziraphale out of the blade’s path in time to prevent himself from being impaled, but they weren’t enough to prevent the dark blade slicing a bloody path across his right shoulder and up a good portion of his neck.

Pain exploded from the wound and Aziraphale felt blood seep from it, soaking into his clothes and staining his skin. The cold numbness of a curse settled itself into the injury as well and Aziraphale didn’t even bother trying to heal it, saving what remained of his strength as Abyss launched forward again. This time Aziraphale managed to block the attack but nearly broke his wrists as Abyss slammed into the flaming sword with enough force to level a building. Miraculously, both his wrists and the sword remained undamaged, its flames painting Abyss’ elated grin in bloody strokes of red. 

“I knew you would not disappoint me, Aziraphale!” He shouted aloud, breaking the block and easily stepping out of the angel’s reach. 

Aziraphale grit his teeth and glanced over at Crowley. 

_ I do hope your plan does not take too much longer, dear _ . 

The thought barely took a moment to cross his mind, but that moment was almost enough distraction to allow Abyss another shot at skewering him through the stomach. The stab missed, but barely, and Aziraphale bit back a pained cry as the obsidian sword cut a shallow wound into his side. 

Blocking Abyss’ attack yet again and crying out as the impact sent pain shooting down his arms, Aziraphale glared into those empty eyes as his attacker laughed. 

Then Abyss disappeared and Aziraphale had half a second to brace himself before pain lanced down his sword arm and he was thrown aside—the sword flying from his grasp to clatter to the floor. Pain pulsed down his right arm and stars exploded in front of him as his head slammed into the ground. Pushing himself up was utter agony and he guessed that his right arm was broken when it refused to accept any sort of pressure whatsoever. Through the pounding fog of pain, Aziraphale heard someone approaching. A kick in the stomach made him gasp as he slumped back to the ground, barely registering the additional pain as he lay awkwardly on his wings. 

Abyss grinned above him, “You fight well, Aziraphale. Had you practiced at all in the past six thousand years you may have even lasted two full minutes. Though I have to wonder what exactly you hoped to achieve here. I hope you weren’t planning on killing me with that little sword of yours, suicide isn’t exactly your style.”

Aziraphale chuckled, a painful smile flickering across his face, “S-someone had to… had to make you pay for what you did. Might as well have been me.”

Abyss laughed long and low, “Make me pay? Aren’t you amusing. That’s the funny thing about Her little Universe, taking  _ responsibility _ for one’s deeds is a commendable action—one that nobody ever takes seriously. If they did, God would have taken responsibility for turning Her children into monsters instead of secluding Herself away and blaming  _ them _ for Her actions.”

Aziraphale coughed, grimacing as his chest ached, “Crowley’s no monster.”

Abyss’ smile vanished as he stamped hard on Aziraphale’s bleeding outstretched arm, the wet crunch of already broken bone accompanied a truly blinding wave of pain that nearly made him black out.

The sneer was visible even through Aziraphale’s watering eyes.

“Crawley retained some of his more decent qualities due to nothing more than my Sister’s poor choices, Aziraphale. Had she not attempted to heal him as she did, he would have been just as, if not more, heartless and cruel as his dear big brother Lucifer. He might have even attained a somewhat respectable rank in that festering Pit.”

Aziraphale said nothing, the pain radiating from his broken arm was just too much.

Abyss continued, swinging the black blade into view, “Had She stayed Her hand all those years ago I could have tolerated this Universe for the sake of my Siblings. But now I must rectify Her mistakes and take  _ responsibility _ for my leniency all those years ago.”

The black sword swung into view again, its blade hanging above him like the guillotine Crowley had saved him from all those centuries ago. 

“Don’t take this personally, Aziraphale, I do rather like you which is why I have tolerated your meddling for so long. It was amusing. But now I tire of this little game of ours.”

The dark sword raised higher. 

“Goodbye, Guardian of the Eastern Gate.” 

The sword sang as it sliced down. Aziraphale closed his eyes automatically, bracing himself for the pain and oblivion that would surely follow, only to open them in startled surprise when the crash of metal against metal echoed throughout the void and something clattered to the ground. 

Abyss stumbled back, one blackened hand raising to gingerly trace a viciously deep wound across one sunken cheek—an almost exact copy of the wound Beelzebub had given his stolen body not that much earlier. His empty eyes widened incredulously as he gazed upon his assailant, his surprise just barely eclipsing Aziraphale’s own as they both recognised who it was. 

“Impossible...” Abyss breathed, his voice soft and stunned, “ _ Impossible _ ...” 

The pale, shimmering form of Gabriel stood, one hand gripping the handle of the fallen flaming sword, his purple eyes blazing with their own righteous fire. His smile was that of an avenging angel, terrible and determined. 

The wound across Abyss’ cheek stitched itself back together, the black blood seeping back into his pallid skin. Shock overcome by a violent, all-consuming rage and snarling with frustrated fury and surprise, Abyss charged forward, the black sword rematerialising in his charred hand. 

Gabriel raised the flaming sword to meet Abyss’ attack, throwing the enraged being aside hard enough that Abyss fell to the ground. 

“ _ Aziraphale _ .” 

Aziraphale flinched, the voice was not just Gabriel’s. A million different voices threaded through the Archangel’s usual baritone, one increasingly familiar female voice coming to the fore. 

Eros spoke once more. 

“ _ Aziraphale, you have to help Crowley _ .” 

As she spoke, Abyss roared, leaping forward with a terrible fury, his sword raised and razor-sharp. Gabriel parried the attack easily although the blow sent a shimmering shockwave through the light of his form. 

With great difficulty, Aziraphale pushed himself to his feet with his one good arm, “How?” 

“ _ There isn’t much time _ ,” Gabriel blocked yet another strike, the shockwave rippling his form lasting longer this time, “ _ He has been attempting to gather his strength but he needs more power, you have to give him yours. All of it. It’s the only way to end this! _ " 

Aziraphale was running before she had finished her sentence. Crowley lay where he had left him, still crumpled in a small, helpless ball with his wings askew. Aziraphale skidded to a halt on his knees and gathered the demon’s terrifyingly still body up in his arms, not caring for how it made his right arm pulse with sharp pain. He was  _ so cold _ . 

Panic clouded his every thought, “How-how do I... I don’t know how-!” 

The voice of Eros resonated throughout the void, echoed a thousand-fold by the other souls trapped with her. 

“ _ You know how, Aziraphale! You do! We will hold him back as long as we can, hurry!” _

Abyss growled long and low, the sound shivering through the ground and up into Aziraphale’s very soul. It invited despair and hopelessness, a nasty voice whispering in his ear. 

_ You don’t know _ , it sneered,  _ You never have, never will.  _

Except he did. 

Perhaps it was instinct or something else entirely, but it made Aziraphale smile. Gently, he placed his palm on Crowley’s chest and concentrated. Every single second of love he had ever felt for the demon in all six thousand years of knowing him flowed through his hand. With it went his strength. He could feel it as it left him, traveling down his arm into Crowley’s chest, leaving his body so quickly it was dizzying. His hand glowed a blinding, beautiful gold but even that paled in comparison to Crowley’s golden eyes. 

True, unfettered happiness stole into his soul, pushing away the rags of Abyss’ presence. 

“Crowley,” He whispered, the name feeling so right on his tongue. 

Then something shattered behind him and the black blade slammed into his back. 

He knew he probably ought to feel pain, but he felt nothing, just a cold numbness and a weary sort of satisfaction. 

He did, however, feel the star. 

The tiny ball of volatile Grace, formed and perfected in the hands of the original Star-smith, slammed into its target’s black-robed chest. 

Abyss’ shriek was almost enough to make him black out, but Aziraphale stayed awake, if, for no other reason, than because Crowley was telling him to. Pleading, really. Everything was getting a bit muddled. 

But Abyss could not be ignored. Aziraphale could see him clearly as he shrieked in agony, desperately trying to absorb the furious ball of ignited Grace still embedded in his chest, it’s lancing tendrils of fire raising angry red welts across his pale body. 

His wails stretched out into an unfathomable screech, shaking the very emptiness of the void as if it had been hit by an earthquake. Deep in his black, shaking wings, Aziraphale watched a veritable rainbow surface. First gold illuminated the darkness, then white, then ivory, copper, iron, scarlet, turquoise, indigo, and finally silver, flashing like a blinding kaleidoscope in Abyss’ eyes and wings, bright colours pushing against the all-consuming blackness. 

“No...” Abyss’ voice sounded weak and full of pain, “I did this...did this for them... I did it for you! Can you not see? My Sisters, my Brothers, can you not see my actions for... for what they are? Can you not feel my love for you?” 

Giving up on tearing the Grace from his chest, Abyss instead lunged forward, blackened fingers clawing at the emptiness, striking at phantoms only he could see. 

A wordless noise erupted from the dark, a seemingly unending melody. A dark song sung by many mouths, mortal and immortal, full of anger, despair, regret, fear, and utter betrayal. Abyss cried out in anguish, clutching at his heart, heedless of the blisters that then erupted on his hands as they came in contact with the star. 

“ **_NO!_ ** ” Abruptly Abyss’ voice grew deeper, even more inhuman than before, the nascent colour shrinking back as the darkness surged, “ **_I DID THIS ALL FOR YOU! SHE BETRAYED YOU, NOT I! I SAVED YOU!_ ** ” 

Aziraphale watched rather than felt Crowley try to drag him away. He could feel that the demon was shaking, and he knew that the star had taken what little strength Crowley had left to give. He supposed that meant they were both dying. 

To his distant surprise, Aziraphale found that he didn’t really mind. At least they were going together. 

The ground shook again and Aziraphale watched distantly as the area around Abyss broke apart. Abyss shrieked louder but all his anger and pain was not enough to bully the resurgent colours out of his wings nor was it enough to shake off the spectral hands that reached through the shattered ground to grab at him and pull him down. 

Aziraphale would have watched more but the numbness was crawling ever closer towards his head, and he did not want Abyss to be the last thing he ever saw. 

So, he looked up. Crowley was above him, his beautiful face dirtied with blood and exhaustion and terror. Aziraphale supposed he himself looked a terrible mess, but he managed to smile at his demon, ignoring the taste of Grace at the back of his throat. Crowley’s golden eyes were like beacons in the dark and Aziraphale smiled as he drank them in, memorising every detail as accurately as he could. 

_ Oh, I wish we could have kissed again, my dear, I would have liked that... _

When the darkness finally claimed his vision, it did not erase the comfortable feeling of Crowley’s arms around him nor did it mask Abyss’ final, guttural shriek of agony. 

Then there was silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this was, quite possibly, my favourite chapter to write.  
> Getting to a climax is stupidly difficult and often times frustrating to the point of tears, but _writing_ the climactic chapter? Once you get into the groove it is smooth bloody sailing and I found myself coming up with more ideas than I knew what to do with. I won't lie, since about chapter 20 most of this particular chapter was already mapped out because I was so damn excited to write it.
> 
> But yes. This chapter.  
> The last truly angsty part of this story. I'm kind of surprised I got this far, to be honest, and I'm so glad so many people have stuck with me to read this.
> 
> Next up, the last chapter before the epilogue where our characters finally catch a fucking break.   
> See you there!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and for your comments, they always make my day :)


	29. A Safe Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angel and a demon meet once again in a garden and a couple is reunited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teeny tiny little warning for a bit of a violent flashback in the middle.  
> Ye have been warned.

“Aziraphale? My dear, it’s time to wake up.”

A gentle voice called from what seemed like a very great distance, a very familiar voice that beckoned and encouraged. Urged him to find his way out of the dark.

It had been dark for a very long time, or maybe it hadn’t been. It had been cold before—cold and painful—now it was just dark. But this was a different sort of darkness, he wasn’t scared of this darkness. It was comforting, warm and soft like home.

Occasionally the voice would return, the same soft-spoken request repeated as if from very far away though every time it returned it seemed to get closer. Not by miles, more like inches. Every time it came back so did sensation. The smell of sandalwood and smoke was his favourite, it reminded him of something he was missing, a very important something.

He still didn’t wake up though he knew he was closer to it. Now the soft voice was mixed with someone else’s.

Crowley’s.

“It was certainly an inventive plan,” He heard Eros say, “Using your own strength and Aziraphale’s to create a star. How did you know my Brother would not be able to handle it?”

“Eh, I didn’t. Was just kinda making things up as I went along.” Crowley replied. Even so far away he sounded tired. More tired than Aziraphale had ever heard him before. And sad.

Eros laughed gently and Aziraphale could picture her placing a gentle hand on Crowley’s shoulder, giving the demon a warm smile, “Of course, I should have guessed. Wisdom knew you had something in mind but all he managed to puzzle out in time was that you needed help with whatever you were planning.”

“It was Abyss’ own bloody fault. I would never have been able to make the damn thing if he hadn’t given me my memories back.”

Eros hummed, sounding thoughtful, “My Brother’s arrogance blinded him to many possibilities. Including those which would prove his undoing. Though I suspect he never would have expected you to throw something like that at him even if he had taken you seriously.”

There was no reply though the silence was not angry or reproachful, just sad.

“If it matters at all, my dear,” She added, gently, “The star was beautiful.”

There was a long pause and Aziraphale patiently waited in the dark, taking comfort in what little he could sense inbetween bouts of sleep. The soft feel of fabric beneath his fingertips, the gentle tickle of a sweet summer breeze dancing across his face. He could see a bit more now. The darkness was injected with light and, if he concentrated hard, he could see shapes in the gloom.

“Has anyone else woken up yet?” Asked Crowley. He sounded different, less tired though still full of an aching sadness.

Eros sounded tired this time too, though hopeful, “Not yet, my dear. They’re all still recovering. Being torn from Hell and Heaven so suddenly is not an easy thing to heal from, though the mortal souls didn’t suffer as badly. It’s lucky you and Aziraphale weren’t similarly affected, it might have just finished you both off.”

Crowley chuckled and Aziraphale felt a small bit of hope bloom in his chest at the sound of genuine mirth in the demon’s voice, “Wasn’t really much to be torn away from. We’ve not really been part of either Side for a very long time.”

A soft hand gently pulled something heavy and warm more firmly up his body, tucking it gently around him.

Eros hummed quietly, “Just Our Side now.”

There was another long pause, though it was shorter than before. He could hear movement, the low creaking of floorboards and the gentle sigh of rustling fabric.

“How is he?” Crowley asked, he sounded miserable and very, very close by. Another gentle hand carded through his hair, pushing a few stray strands off his forehead. The movement brought with it the scent of sandalwood and smoke and Aziraphale wanted to lean into the touch, though his body still refused to cooperate.

Eros sounded closer now too, “He will have scars as you do, but he’ll recover. Just give him time, my dear.”

Crowley made a wordless noise of helpless frustration, a hissing growl that Aziraphale never wanted to hear again.

A soft kiss to his temple made his heart soar, the darkness retreated further.

Then sleep claimed him yet again.

Light, that was all he saw. As Aziraphale dragged his eyes open they were flooded with light. There was nothing special about this light, nothing at all. It certainly wasn’t holy and yet it was possibly the greatest vision he had ever beheld.

That was probably blasphemous, not that he really cared.

He blinked and the light grew less obstructing. Shapes resolved themselves and it took him a few heartbeats to realise the lumpy mass in front of him was a pillow. He spent a few minutes resting just where he was, trying to regain his bearings. His limbs felt leaden and it took a great amount of effort to move just his arm. The duvet over him was soft and warm but very, very heavy, like a weighted cloud. As time passed and the rest of his body seemed to catch up with his head, his limbs started to get lighter and movement became easier.

He braced himself for pain when he finally managed to force his sleepy limbs into sitting him up but, other than a slight ache in the muscles of his arms and legs, nothing happened. All he could feel was the duvet falling away and sliding down to his waist as he pushed himself up with his hands, the heavy material sliding easily over the comfortable tartan pyjamas he now realised he was wearing.

When his eyes adjusted, he had to blink several times just to be sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

It looked like a perfect cross between his bookshop and Crowley’s Mayfair flat. Familiar and slightly worn wallpaper covered all the walls except the one to the right where a window helpfully illuminated the coat of light grey paint. The window was open, and its white curtains were fluttering as a slight breeze blew inside, bringing with it the taste of summer. A bright blue slice of sky peeked through the white folds and Aziraphale could hear the faint rustle of trees and a hint of birdsong. The soft light pouring through the window was enough to illuminate the rest of the room, revealing several creaking bookshelves lining the walls, groaning under the weight of old books and little green potted plants.

It was so… cosy.

Memories flitted in and out, old and new. Cold slices of pain and mocking laughter, agony like he had never felt before and a constant deep, icy fear. They clawed at his heart but, strangely, found no purchase. It almost felt like a dream, like a horrible nightmare he had finally awoken from and whose details held no true meaning. Cautiously, he lifted one hand and traced a thin ridge running from his right shoulder to climb partially up his neck. The scar wasn’t painful and now that he knew to look for it he found a myriad of them littering his skin, all thin and barely noticeable if he ignored the arc cut into his side and the thick ridge running down his sternum.

Pushing the duvet aside and turning slightly, taking a rather unnecessary deep breath, he managed to push himself to his feet and only stumbled a little.

“Oh bother…” He muttered, as he knocked over a small potted plant next to the bed—spilling potting soil and upsetting the small aloe vera inside. Using a small miracle that came much easier than it ever had done before, Aziraphale scooped up the soil and replaced the pot on a nearby nightstand.

“Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale jumped and nearly upset the plant again, he turned around and barely had the time to be surprised before he was pulled into a tight hug. Eros held onto him with a strength that belied her gentle appearance before she drew back and gave him a truly winning smile.

Aziraphale found himself smiling back as he took her in. Gone was the look of dread in her eyes as was the uncomfortable tinge in her aura that told of hardship. Now she practically radiated health, though he could still clearly see the stubs of horn on her forehead. She felt healthier and it showed. Her locks were still the same chocolate brown as always, but they carried what seemed like a small meadow. A crown of pink carnations curled around her brow, resting on the stumps of horn, whilst red and white carnations weaved through her hair into a tumbling cascade down her back and around her shoulders.

“Oh, my dear,” She said, beaming delightedly, “You have no idea how much of a relief it is to see you awake.”

Aziraphale blinked, his mind racing to try to catch up with what he was seeing, “I’ve missed a lot, haven’t I?”

Eros smiled, “No more than everyone else, dear. You’re only the second person to wake up after all.”

“Second?” That seemed to make sense. A half-remembered conversation sprang back to the fore of his memory.

Eros nodded, “Yes dear, after my Brother... well, attempted to destroy everything, there was a lot to do. New corporations to form, souls to heal, worlds to rebuild. It takes a lot longer than you’d think to sort through all the human souls and put them back where they belong. We’ve been quite busy.”

“We?” Aziraphale asked, getting more than a little befuddled.

Eros’ smile somehow seemed to get brighter, “My Siblings and I. We’ve been quite busy fixing up his mess, though none of us would actually be here without you, my dear.”

A blush crept along Aziraphale’s cheeks and he was far too distracted to try and get rid of it, “Oh, I… err thank you?”

Eros giggled, and kissed him on the cheek in a very motherly fashion, “So humble. Come on, we must find Crowley and give him the good news.”

Aziraphale felt his heart stutter, stop, and then restart all within a single second, “Goodness me, Crowley! How is he- I mean, he was hurt, where-?”

Eros shushed him gently, and Aziraphale felt his sheer panic recede into a small knot of worry under his heart.

“Crowley is fine, Aziraphale; he woke up a little while before you did.”

Aziraphale felt the panic return along with a very poignant set of memories, of Crowley’s panic after only a week of him comatose in the demon’s own bed, of the look of terror on his face at the idea of waiting even longer for him to wake up. An idea Aziraphale himself had put in his head.

_ I dread to think what you’d do if it were a year. _

His own words mocked him, and the knot of worry twisted harder.

“Aziraphale!” Eros’ words were stern though still held that comforting kindness. The worry loosened its grip, “Crowley is fine, I’ve been here with him as often as he has wanted me. Often when he didn’t want me, actually. It isn’t like before; you know what he’s like when he doesn’t keep busy or have someone around to annoy him into being busy.”

Memories of a century-long nap after their holy water argument sprang to mind this time and Aziraphale found himself smiling a little. Oh yes, the demon was quite self-destructive when left to his own devices.  _ That  _ he knew quite well.

“So, what has the old Serpent been up to?”

Eros grinned, “I could show you; are you feeling up to it?”

The giddy feeling in his chest suggested he would have said yes, even if he hadn’t been, but Aziraphale managed to push past it and actually make sure he was fine. It would do Crowley no good to see him collapse after everything else they’d been through. He’d worried the demon enough as it was.

“Perfectly, lead the way.”

After Eros had miracled up a pair of tartan slippers 1 she led him gently by the hand through what seemed like a perfectly lovely cottage. One full of books and a lot of very specific plants. They passed many more aloe vera before far more complex and artful flora started to appear. Bushels of ambrosia and globe amaranth nestled in the corners; pots of red and white anemones found their place on some shelves; laurels of arbutus hung from the ceiling amongst garlands of jonquil and lavender; and vase after vase held bouquets of moonflowers, marigolds, mallow, and bellflowers. The smell was unbelievably wonderful and the riot of colours was a sight to behold after so long in the dark.

Eros led him to the back door and paused, her head gently brushing against a hanging basket of eglantine roses as she turned to face him.

“He’s in the garden but this is a moment you need to have alone.”

Aziraphale swallowed, suddenly nervous, though Eros didn’t seem to notice. She gently pushed the door open and laid a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I may not see you for a while, my dear, so I will say this now,” Her smile turned slightly sombre though no less radiant, “Thank you so much for what you did. For returning my family to me. It is a debt I will never repay.”

Aziraphale stuttered, “I didn’t do it alone-”

Eros grinned, “Oh, I know that. I suspect Crowley will hold it over my head for many years to come.”

With that she moved to the side, careful not to upset the various pots of heliotrope and honeysuckle.

The sweet smell of flowers was now carried on a warm summer breeze that danced across his face. Stepping out of the cottage and into the sunshine had a feeling of finality, as if he’d stepped through a door that he could never go back through 2 , though it was a feeling easily ignored. The garden he strode into in his tartan slippers was nothing short of stunning. Flowers and bushes of every possible kind sprouted from the ground or spilled from hanging baskets or clung to wooden archways along the simple cobblestone path that led further into the garden. Violet wisteria and pearlescent jasmine hung around him whilst young alder and hawthorn trees grew from plots of white rainflowers and red tulips.

The sound of someone humming a very familiar tune made his heart soar and he smiled as he moved through the garden, humming along to a song made familiar through many rides in the Bentley.

Eventually he reached a clearing where a familiar figure ensconced in black dirt-smudged designer jeans and a once red, now green-stained shirt knelt in a flowerbed gently planting young celandine plants with all the care of a very experienced gardener.

Crowley fidgeted as he approached but he didn’t look up from his work, “I’m busy Eros, can we talk later?”

Aziraphale swallowed past the lump in his throat and smiled, “Hello Crowley.”

Crowley stiffened like a startled cat and Aziraphale noticed his hair was much longer, much more like it had been on the wall all those millennia ago. The demon slowly stood and removed the gardener’s gloves as he turned around.

He wasn’t wearing his glasses.

His golden eyes reflected the sunlight, glowing a deep amber around the vertical ebony slits. Aziraphale was sure he’d never seen a more beautiful sight 3 .

“Angel?” Crowley’s eyes were wide and disbelieving, his skin that lovely slight pink it always turned when he was exposed to the sun for longer than an hour.

The demon approached cautiously, as if any sudden movement would shatter this very pretty illusion into a thousand pieces. Aziraphale remained as still as he could, letting the demon approach as slowly as he wanted. Crowley paused a step or two in front of him; Aziraphale could feel the tension in the air, a wound elastic band on the verge of snapping.

Aziraphale smiled and gestured vaguely to the blooms swaying gently in the breeze, “I like your garden, it’s beautiful.”

Crowley swallowed carefully, “Yeah, took me a while. Only thing that kept me sane, really.”

The silence was somehow even tenser than before but Aziraphale pushed through it gallantly, determined to see the horribly neutral expression on Crowley’s face melt into that lovely smile he had become so accustomed to.

“Eros neglected to mention we were in England again. Though I’m not entirely sure where we are.”

Crowley blinked and the ghost of a smile appeared before it flickered away again, “You’ve never been to the South Downs before, angel.”

Aziraphale blinked, “Is that where we are?”

Crowley smirked though it was weak and short-lived, “Eh, not really. This isn’t Earth. It’s sort of a weird amalgamation of what was left of the physical parts of Heaven and Hell with a bit of Their power thrown in,” He shrugged, the motion stiff and stunted, “Apparently celestial souls don’t heal well on the mortal plane so they had to improvise with what they had. Luckily, it's still sort of flexible in its configuration, able to create little mini realms for everybody. They’re calling it the Sanctuary.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale paused and took a moment to stretch out with his senses, really  _ feeling _ his surroundings. It indeed felt… off. It was so similar to Earth he almost missed the strong undercurrent of magic that pulsed in the ground and the air, a steady thrum that was neither fully Heavenly nor Hellish but a sort of comfortable mixture of the two. Something that was theoretically impossible but, as Aziraphale knew from extensive experience, was fairly easy to pull off.

He smiled and took a slow step forward, “Crowley, I-”

Crowley took a step back, “I… I have something to sssay…”

Aziraphale could feel the sheer  _ need _ rolling off Crowley, the need to make absolutely sure that Aziraphale was there, that he was alright. It was a need he had felt before from the demon, on the bus after Armageddon, after the Trials, after he had woken up in his bed, after he had returned from the very depths of Hell. Every single time Crowley had given in, bumping shoulders, holding hands, hugging,  _ kissing _ …

But this time he was holding back, and the effort required to do so clearly showed in the tension in his shoulders and the shakiness of his clenched fists.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale began but Crowley shook his head vehemently.

“No, angel, I-I need to say this now.” He took a deep breath and let it out.

“I’m not Raphael.”

Aziraphale blinked, “What-?”

Crowley opened his mouth and the words seemed to come of their own accord, the demon helpless to stop what was clearly a well-rehearsed and painful script, “I’m not Raphael anymore, haven’t been for a long time. And I didn’t want to tell you because I was… because I was fucking terrified about what you’d think. About how you’d see me afterwards. And by the time I thought you might’ve understood it was after the Trials and it would have just made things worse. So, I ignored it. But it was a stupid thing to do, and I’m so fucking ssssorry that I didn’t tell you myself. That you had to almost fucking  _ die _ before you found out and  _ I _ didn’t tell you...” Aziraphale wasn’t sure when Crowley had started crying but the tears were there all the same, he found himself crying as well.

“We were getting so close so quickly and I didn’t want to ruin it by telling you who I… who I used to be. It was stupid and sssselfish and I am so, so sorry.”

The silence in the garden was only broken by the soft sound of birds high up in the trees and Crowley’s sniffling.

Aziraphale broke the distance between them and pulled Crowley into a hug, “Oh Crowley, you marvellous idiot.”

Crowley made a hurt noise though he laughed, “Hey, I’m bearing my heart and soul here, angel, you can’t-”

Aziraphale drew back and shut him up with a kiss. It was nothing special, not really, just a gentle press of lips on lips. Crowley stiffened for a moment and Aziraphale felt the elastic  _ snap _ , that shaky control shattering in an instant. Suddenly Crowley’s delicate, long fingers were gripping his short platinum hair, pulling gently at the curls as he eagerly reciprocated the kiss. Aziraphale’s arms lifted to loop around the demon’s sun-kissed neck, pressing them further together.

And, for the first time in what felt like forever, Aziraphale felt like the Universe made sense.

He was slightly breathless as they separated and the sight that greeted him made him gasp. Crowley’s hair spilled around his shoulders in a scarlet waterfall, shimmering slightly in the warm sunlight. His reptilian eyes were the deepest gold Aziraphale had ever seen, even more beautiful than Love’s own wings. Memories pulled at him, much older memories of a very different being. That Archangel couldn’t hold a candle to the beautiful sight before him.

“I fell in love with  _ you _ , Crowley, whoever you were before doesn’t matter. It  _ never _ mattered, not to me, and I am so sorry you felt you could never talk to me about it.”

The look of sheer surprise on Crowley’s face was almost comical and Aziraphale nearly frowned as he realised why.  _ Have I really never told him? _ It seemed impossible, had he really _never_ said it ?

He smiled, “I love  _ you _ , my dear, my  _ dearest _ . I love you more than anything, more than books or fine food or the Earth itself.”

Crowley stammered, looking close to tears again, “But… But I  _ lied _ …”

“You didn’t, my dear, you never lied to me about who you are. You  _ chose _ who you are, remember? You  _ are _ Crowley. And I  _ love you _ .”

Crowley sucked in a breath, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears, though he was beaming like a newly born sun. Abruptly he pulled Aziraphale in for another kiss, and when he drew back, he was actually crying.

“I… I love you too, angel. My perfect, wonderful,  _ frustratingly  _ adorable angel. I love you.” He repeated it over and over, visibly delighting in the fact that he  _ could _ , that this was  _ real _ . Aziraphale found himself repeating it too, a lovely mantra that made his heart swell fit to burst.

They were here, they were safe, it was over.

They were  _ free _ .

In a garden on a warm summer’s day, an angel and a demon kissed amongst the blossoming balsam and celandine. And, unbeknownst to them, someone else shared their joy. Eros smiled inside the cottage walls, her fingers tracing the delicate petals of the red carnations in her hair. Reluctantly, she pulled herself away from the cottage door and walked further into the house.

Someone else was waking up after all, and she was needed.

***

__

_ Beelzebub snarled as they blocked yet another swing; it rang through their arms, the shockwave of pain dulled through the fog of exhaustion. The corpse who used to be Gabriel was expressionless, all emotion channelled through its attacks, its black eyes pitiless through the curtain of freezing rain. The scent of blood was overpowering, and every breath felt like they were drowning in it. _

_ A throaty roar behind them made them pause, if only for a second. The sound was neither Michael—whose battle with Lucifer could have deafened a rock—nor was it Uriel—who, unlike her sister, fought like a wraith—and it could have heralded the arrival of an even worse foe than the seemingly unending stream of corpses. But, as something cracked across their skull and their vision disappeared in a swirling fog of brilliant stars, Beelzebub decided the corpse they were fighting probably held greater priority. _

_ They woke just in time to roll out of the way of the corpse’s broadsword and came to a stop on the frozen ground, bumping into a half-melted lump of marble and just barely avoiding a crack in the sand that was still spewing fire. They coughed and tasted copper, the blood freezing as soon as it hit the already bloodied battlefield. Rivulets of red trickled down their neck, collecting in the grooves of their chitinous armour where the freezing rain washed it away. Their head rung with an eerie silence, the shriek of the battle around them fading in and out like a faulty record. _

_ Then they sensed it, a bright presence on the battlefield, shining with infernal energy. Dimly they wondered why on Earth Adam was there at all but, whatever the reason, they were sure they’d never get to hear it. _

_ The reinforcements he had brought were easy to see as they brought their full fury against the corpses. Beelzebub even managed to spot Dagon amidst the sea, clawing at Lucifer’s back and giving Michael the advantage she needed. Hastur and Ligur were lost in the tide but they were easily heard, their howling advance followed by the odd hollow ‘clonk’ of a baseball bat, the briefly over-powering burnt-sugar smell of human magic, and the roar of a car engine.  
_

_ Adam himself was also helping, that much they could sense. His powers were still nascent and underdeveloped, but they wagered Abyss didn’t really see it that way as they watched several corpses be flung further into the city by a blast of infernal energy that cut a burning furrow in the frozen ground. But he was too far away, it was too late, at least for them. _

__

_ The corpse with Gabriel’s face loomed above them, eyes as black as the raging storm far above. Vision blurred with pain and the still falling rain, Beelzebub pushed themselves into sitting up, determined not to meet their end laying helplessly on their back. _

_ Then the blade fell from the corpse’s hand. _

_ Surprise echoed hollowly through their heart as they watched the corpse crumple gently to the ground, the black fading from its eyes. _

_ The Tower fell silent as its fire died, as did the storm, the rain finally easing until it stopped altogether. Through their darkening vision they could see more silhouettes collapsing, cursed blades falling harmlessly from limp hands, and inky blackness retreating from their eyes.  _

__

_ They found themselves back on the ground, the last of their strength failing. Far above them the dark clouds parted and revealed the soft blue sky of early dawn. They could feel the warmth of sunlight play across their face though it felt distant through the numbing fog. _

_ Gently, they turned their head. The numbness spreading throughout their limbs and up their neck should have been terrifying, but it wasn’t. It was actually rather nice; it soothed the ache in the back of their head and they no longer felt so thoroughly exhausted. _

_ Gabriel lay next to them, the dimming light filtering through the clouds turning his hair almost silver. Perhaps the knowledge that it was their own eyes that were failing and not the light should have been more worrying than it was but that fear was the last thing on their mind. As their vision faded, the last thing they saw were those wonderful violet eyes. They looked peaceful this time, not horribly empty, and it made them smile. _

__

***

Beelzebub woke up gasping and groaned as they hit the ground. The impact aggravated the headache that was already pulsing in their temples. After a few moments, the worst of the pain ebbed away and they cracked their eyes open, hissing softly as the dim light flooded their overly sensitive retinas. From this angle all they could see was a jumble of odd dark grey shapes and shadows but, as they gradually forced themselves into sitting up, they realised they were staring at a wall with a chest of drawers pushed up against it.

Blinking hard—both to try to adjust to the dimness and to be sure they weren’t hallucinating—Beelzebub untangled themselves from the heavy duvet knotted around their legs and stood up.

They’d fallen out of bed.

If the thing they were staring at could be called a bed, at least by their standards. The beds they knew were hospital beds, Hell didn’t really have many others unless you got special dispensation to practice Sloth in the Home Office 4 and even then those beds were not as luxurious as this. Beelzebub leaned a little on the mattress and found it almost unbearably soft. Like a cloud made more substantial. The number of pillows piled haphazardly over the thing was ridiculous though the amount on the floor suggested that overdoing it on the pillows was a move made purely out of practicality. Better many pillows than no pillows at all, it seemed. The duvet was twisted in a knot and half-hanging off the bed, the sheets similarly mussed and pulled off the mattress. Apparently, they were a busy sleeper, which explained why their limbs were still aching and why the red and black pyjamas they were wearing were rumpled like they’d gone running a marathon in them.

What it didn’t explain was where exactly they fucking were.

A flash of movement to their right made them jump, but to their embarrassment it was only a mirror on the far-wall. Hobbling over to it proved a little trickier than it otherwise would have given that their legs were still trying to wake up, but they made it eventually. Helpfully, their eyes had adjusted to the dimness by the time they were face-to-face with their reflection.

But, despite their improved vision, the reflected ghost couldn’t possibly have been real. Cautiously, they carded a hand through their hair which looked clean and well-brushed in the reflection… and  _ felt _ clean and well-brushed in reality. No tangles, no knots, just soft, clean black strands. Noticeably absent was the fly. They had hidden it during the battle—not wanting it’s blood-red compound eyes to act as a helpful aid for those aiming to knock their head off—but hiding it was all they had been able to do since it had first appeared all those millennia ago.

Now it was just gone—not hidden or made small, just completely absent. Their skin felt strange as well, usually the lesions and sores across their cheeks and nose were just hiding under the skin, itching as badly as they did when they were exposed, but there was no itch now. Their skin was smooth and unmarked.

They leaned in closer to the mirror, forgoing breathing in case the glass fogged up. It was unmarked except for…

They almost laughed as they traced the small, simple tattoo of a fly just in front of their right ear. Exactly where Crowley’s serpent mark was.

Thinking the name opened the floodgates. Worry rose sickeningly quickly in their stomach. Crowley being tossed into the unknown by that monster, Aziraphale and Eros rushing to save him. Were they okay? Was anyone okay? Had they won?

The headache came back with a vengeance and Beelzebub hurriedly used a miracle to ease the throbbing in their head.

Something behind them creaked softly and Beelzebub jumped, their fingers elongating into wickedly sharp claws as every fibre of their being was sent into full alert, every sense searching for their adversary.

They only found Eros.

She waved from the doorway, wearing a simple white dress trimmed in gold, the stubs of her horns still visible in the gloom, “Hello dear.”

“Oh, hi…” They replied, lamely, their adrenaline guiltily slinking away, leaving their limbs aching and their head pounding like a drum as the headache found an excuse to return.

Eros smiled gently, her eyes sparkling as several nearby lamps slowly began glowing to life. She moved to Beelzebub’s side and laid a warm hand over their arm. The contact made them flinch though she took no notice and a soft warmth pressed into their body. It steadily climbed up their arm, easing the ache in their muscles, before reaching their head and erasing the headache so quickly it made them slightly dizzy.

“Thank you…” Beelzebub breathed; relief obvious in their voice.

She let go, the soft smile never leaving, “No need to thank me, my dear. Are you feeling alright?”

Somehow, they knew she didn’t mean the headache, “I… Well, kind of.”

Eros looked at them curiously, “Kind of?”

Beelzebub gestured a little helplessly to the mirror, “I look… different. I didn’t have a tattoo before, and the zzorezz are gone…”

It all felt a bit overwhelming. Their physical appearance had never been something they’d valued but it had at least remained a constant for over six thousand years. One thing they could trust never to change without their knowing about it.

Eros nodded, “We had to make new corporations for the demons and angels after they lost theirs when Above and Below were destroyed. Including you, actually, as the battle damaged your previous form too much for it to be saved. Creating them took some doing of course, Creation isn’t really any of our specialities, but we managed. And I decided to try and make them more comfortable, more fitting for you all individually instead of forcing you to adjust to one.”

She paused, looking slightly apologetic, “Oh, and I’m sorry but I couldn’t do anything about the scars.”

Beelzebub blinked and lifted their red pyjama top, exposing their stomach. The old scars they had grown accustomed to were still there, still that slightly pink-white of dead tissue. But, overlaying them was a crosshatch work of silvery lines, dotted at random here and there. Each and every one marking a place where a corpse’s weapon had found its way through their armour. They expected the scars to hurt, to carry memories of the pain which had instigated their creation, but they were just scars. Just marks in the skin.

“I tried to get rid of them, my dear, but the blades they used were cursed by my Brother. Nothing I did would have ever made a dent in them. And your older scars were… similarly difficult to tackle.”

At the look on Beelzebub’s face, Eros hurriedly continued, “If you preferred your original form I could always-”

They shut her up with a hug.

They were still hugely inexperienced with these warm kinds of gestures, but Eros didn’t seem to mind their clumsiness. She hugged back just as fiercely.

When they drew back, Beelzebub had a stab at smiling. It was weak, true, but it was as genuine as they could make it, “It’zz perfect.”

They paused for a moment, “Zzo we won? Izz Abyzzz dead? Izz everyone okay?”

Eros smiled gently, her happiness slightly tinted with a sense of determination, “Yes, we won, and yes they’re all alright. My Brother isn’t dead, destroying him would have been disastrous, but I promise he’s never coming back. Not while I can help it.”

Beelzebub nodded; the relief almost overwhelming. Caring about other people was very tiring, though they suspected it was something they were going to have to get used to doing again.

“And… Lucifer? The Metatron? Are they…?”

Eros flinched slightly but sighed, “Dead. My Brother used their souls to jumpstart the Tower and absorbed whatever power was left over. They’re gone.”

Beelzebub grinned, a fierce feeling of giddy happiness stealing through their soul, “Zzo the Univerzze  _ does _ care.”

Eros shot them a slightly reproachful glare though they could tell she was trying not to smile, “Maybe.”

Beelzebub took a moment to reflect inwards, noting with unaccustomed glee that the chains they had lived with for so long—those awful memories of their time in the Pit with their dear old King—had lost their bite. They still weren’t what you would call pleasant, but now that little voice in the back of their head had lost its venom.

It almost made them laugh.

With a great deal of effort, they forced themselves back into the present. Gloating would have to wait.

“What about the humanzz? Adam’zz pack wazz at the battle weren’t they?”

Eros nodded, “They were. But they’re safe. All the human souls Abyss stole are back where they belong. And it’s much easier to heal human bodies, so returning those he killed to Earth was far simpler than we thought it would be. Adam and the rest are safe in Tadfield.”

“And Maria?”

Eros smiled, “Safe with her sister.”

“Crowley? Aziraphale?”

Eros’ smile brightened slightly, and she chuckled, “Oh they’re awake. Very much so.”

Now Beelzebub did laugh. Apparently Aziraphale  _ was _ rather skilled at this whole saving-the-world malarkey.

_ Lucky bastards… _

When they looked to Eros her smile had sobered slightly though she still radiated happiness.

“My dear,” She said quietly, placing a hand on Beelzebub’s shoulder, “Could you come with me? I’ve got something to show you.”

She led them from the softly lit bedroom out into a dark corridor. As they walked it grew lighter, lamps and delicate strings of lights glowing to life as she passed. Beelzebub swallowed, slightly nervous. This place felt strange. Comfortable certainly, but underneath…

“Thizz izzn’t Earth, izz it?” They said, finally.

“No. We call this the Sanctuary. A safe place.”

“Zzo… Heaven and Hell? They’re gone?” Every time the thought crossed their mind it seemed impossible but the presence of the scar on their soul was a good reminder that it was very much real. They remembered when that wound had opened the first time, when they had Fallen. That pain had been lessened slightly by the incursion of Hell’s presence—a dark fire burning in their soul rather than a holy one—but it had still scarred and then the wound had been ripped open anew when the Tower exploded.

Eros hummed, “Not… entirely. Since none of us can truly Create, we had to take what remained of the physical planes of both realms in order to create the Sanctuary. But luckily the spiritual side of them is still intact, human souls still need a place to go after all.”

“Oh…” They chewed on that for a little while, letting Eros simply lead them to whatever it was she wanted to show them. Eventually she stopped outside a door, her hand hovering hesitantly over the handle. She turned back to them and again placed her hand on their shoulder, squeezing slightly.

“He’s waiting in there for you, my dear.”

Beelzebub blinked, a hint of suspicion rearing its head, “Who?”

Eros just smiled, “See for yourself.”

Beelzebub felt slightly uneasy opening the door, but nothing special happened. It was just a door. It creaked slightly as it opened, revealing a simple bedroom with a balcony. A spectacular view of the ocean was visible as they stepped inside, its ever-shifting waves painted stunning shades of orange, red, and pink as the sunrise slowly peeked over the horizon. A sunrise that also revealed a silhouette standing by the balcony’s railing

Their heart stopped.

They heard the door clicking shut behind them, Eros disappearing as quietly as she had arrived.

Gabriel turned slightly, the sunrise sparking in his violet eyes as he smiled a small hesitant smile, the light revealing shades of purple they remembered from so long ago. They remembered laughing as they looked into those eyes, remembered how they glowed with so much emotion whenever they saw them. Completely open windows into the soul of the Archangel they had loved.

These windows were slightly shuttered, unused to being opened after so long remaining closed. But they were opening now, slowly but surely regaining the light Beelzebub had adored so much.

Gabriel shifted nervously on his feet, turning to face them fully.

He was… exactly how they remembered.

Slowly, their heart started to beat again, every single passing moment reassuring them that this was no simple illusion, no trick of the light or fanciful dream. They could smell the sea on the balmy breeze from the balcony, they could feel the warmth in the air, they could see those purple eyes. Not from memories, but in reality.

“You came back…” They said, barely above a whisper.

Gabriel swallowed nervously, nodding, “Yes.”

Beelzebub felt tears start to swell in their eyes, clear tears without the blemish of oil, “You really came back…”

They saw Gabriel open his mouth to respond, they saw tears in his eyes too, and maybe he was going to say something. Maybe not. But as they ran out onto the balcony and pulled him into a crushing hug, they decided that whatever it had been was not important. They inhaled lungful after lungful of that wonderful lavender smell, erasing the memory of the cold alley, banishing it into the deepest recesses of their mind. They revelled in the feeling of angelically strong arms surrounding them, tugging them closer.

Two conflicting instincts warred within them. One wanted nothing more than to tell the idiot off for scaring them so fucking much. For leaving them behind. For being so stupid and careless. The other wanted something much simpler.

The second instinct won out, a massive majority ruling in its favour.

A moment later their lips were locked with his in an achingly soft kiss as they wrapped their arms around his neck. Gabriel’s arms found their place at their waist, one hand raising to gently tangle in their hair.

They stayed that way for just a moment, or maybe an eternity.

When Beelzebub drew back all they could see were those violet eyes, darkened to a vibrant indigo. They swallowed thickly, tears streaking down their smooth cheeks in a way they would have found unacceptable just a few months before.

But it was okay. Gabriel was crying too.

They smiled and laughed, pressing their face into his chest, “Going into a London alleyway at night, really?”

A few months ago, it would have been a harsh tease; heavy with sarcasm intended to needle, to get a reaction just for the joy of watching Gabriel’s perfect façade break slightly. To see the Archangel he really was under all the fake smiles and plastic civility.

Now Gabriel just laughed along with them.

“I was distracted, I got caught off-guard.” He mumbled, entirely sincere without an ounce of haughtiness.

“You came back,” They repeated, letting the words circulate over and over again in their head.

Gabriel nodded, “Of course I did. I’d never leave you, never again.”

They could feel more tears well up in their eyes, and they let them fall.

“I mizzed you zzzo fucking much…” They whispered, kissing him again, revelling in the fact that they  _ could _ .

Gabriel laughed softly as they separated, “I missed you too, my love. Missed you more than anything.”

_ Love _ .

That word rang in their head. Clear as a bell. Love.

They pulled him closer, their every instinct screaming at them to never let go, never again. They smiled up at him. Memories of Before fighting with one another in their mind’s eye. Not one was as spectacular as this. None of those memories could compare with this vision. The rising sun painting Gabriel’s greying hair gold, its warm rays setting his tearful gaze afire with sparkling droplets of silver. This was perfect.

For the first time in their recent memory, they felt themselves relax. The sound of the ocean, the sound of the seagrass sighing in the breeze, the feeling of those arms around them again. That feeling of safety and  _ love _ they had been missing for so, so long without ever realising it.

Beelzebub sighed as the sun rose high enough to paint their own black hair gold.

“I love you, you idiot,” They murmured, leaning forward to kiss him again.

Gabriel smiled, “Love you too.”

On a balcony above the ocean, an angel and a demon kissed as the sun rose and made everything glow. Neither saw Love smile, but she did all the same. A feeling of finality hovered in the air. She wasn’t done by any means. So much work to do. But she let herself wait for just a few moments, simply letting herself feel: her fingers tracing the delicate blossoming head of a red carnation behind her ear.

But Eros wasn’t done, she could already hear her Siblings calling for her. She was needed, she was always needed now, her family needed her.

She smiled as she walked away.

She was home.

* * *

_ 1 _ _ Naturally, Aziraphale found them delightful. An opinion he knew Crowley would not share. _

_ 2 _ _ Speaking metaphorically of course. The cottage’s door was, as all doors are, reusable. _

_ 3 _ _ Which was probably another blasphemous thought. Not that Aziraphale was keeping track. _

_ 4 _ _ Something that wasn’t done often as, unsurprisingly, sleeping was also easily practiced on Earth using any handily horizontal—or occasionally vertical—surface. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell how long I have been waiting to dump some fluffiness on y'all? I probaby over did it but this chapter made me grin like an idiot whilst I was writing it so quite frankly I don't much care if its too sweet.
> 
> Also, that scene with Gabriel and Beelzebub? That shit's been written in my notes since I had Gabriel Sparta'd off the mortal coil in chapter 10/11. I'm not kidding, the moment I did that I immediately planned for how to get them back together because I made myself upset with what I did. I'm my own worst enemy.
> 
> It is my personal headcanon that if Crowley is StressedTM he either takes a long nap or Power Gardens for days. Leave him alone long enough and I'm sure he could replicate Eden down to the last blade of grass.
> 
> But anyway, only the epilogue left now. Wow.  
> So, who wants to see a wedding?
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and for your comments, they always make my day :)


	30. Epilogue: The Time After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wedding tag finally becomes relevant and we get to (briefly) meet Eros' Siblings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Extreme fluffiness and copious amounts of good feelings ahead. Ye have been warned.  
> (I also may have gone slightly bonkers with the footnotes, so there's also that)

**London, Soho**

**Afterwards**

It was a very nice day.

In the course of Earth’s history, many days have been nice. The first seven days of its existence had been bestowed with absolutely gorgeous weather; though that was, of course, before the invention of rain.

Today, however, was a particularly pleasant one.

A comfortably warm breeze—neither too balmy nor too dry—whispered through the treetops bringing with it the scent of summer, and a healthy dusting of fluffy white clouds ensured that the sun’s heat was never overwhelming.

Many in London chose to enjoy the weather while it lasted.

Of course, none of them questioned its perfection. Even if they had, they would have never guessed that the perfect day was due to several very powerful beings not-so-subtly wishing for good weather1.

Some, however, had better things to do than mindlessly enjoy the sunshine.

Crowley sped through London’s streets at a restrained 87 miles an hour, easily avoiding cars and pedestrians to the tune of Queen. The route was something he had memorised long ago, so it barely took any time at all for him to pull up in Soho and park in his usual illegal spot.

He paused for a moment, taking the time to adjust his glasses as people bustled around him.

It had been several months since the Second-Apocalypse-That-Didn’t-Happen2 and yet nothing seemed to have changed. People kept going about their daily lives like the world hadn't almost ended (again). Even those who had been directly part of the whole sodding affair because they’d been zombified remembered not a jot of it and just stared at you blankly if you asked what they'd been doing last year 5.

It was at once both eerie and relieving

Humanity just kept shuffling forward, the world kept spinning, and no one bothered to notice that anything actually _had_ changed on Earth.

Admittedly they were all rather minor changes6 though one had caught quite a bit of local attention.

Crowley smirked slightly as he swayed over to the bookshop’s front door, ignoring the CLOSED sign and the slightly smaller sign above that. A sign that boldly proclaimed something that the surrounding real-estate agents found of particular interest—given that they had been salivating over the quaint little building for decades.

In big block capitals, the sign said **SOLD**.

Although none of said agents had any idea who it had been sold _to_. Their clients were astonished it had been bought up so quickly and had sent their agents there to try and talk some sense into the owner.

Crowley could have told them that trying to change Aziraphale’s mind was a lost cause, but he was too busy laughing as they tried to offer his angel everything under the sun, an offer Aziraphale found increasingly amusing himself.

Today, however, it seemed as though the endless stream of estate agents had finally dried up7 so Crowley invited himself in.

He could hear someone bustling about in the gloom and eventually his eyes adjusted enough that he was able to spot a cream-coloured figure fussing over some very old books. With the care of an expert librarian and matching protective gloves, Aziraphale carefully stacked the books in a nearby cardboard box; taking great pains to ensure each one was comfortably nestled inside.

Crowley grinned and closed the door as silently as he could8 before padding over, making sure his snakeskin shoes and the creaky floorboards stayed as silent as the door. He waited until the last book was safely tucked away before he pounced, wrapping his arms around his angel, and gently kissing the tip of the long scar that just barely protruded above Aziraphale’s coat collar.

As expected, Aziraphale nearly jumped a foot in the air.

Crowley fought the urge to chuckle as Aziraphale let out a long-suffering sigh, clearly pretending the demon couldn’t hear the obvious fondness in the exhalation.

Raising an eyebrow in feigned exasperation, Aziraphale tutted, “Really dearest? Must you?”

Crowley hummed, kissing the scar again and smiling when Aziraphale flushed slightly, “Thought you liked surprises, angel.”

He let go long enough to allow Aziraphale to turn in his arms. The angel’s happy aura was hardly blemished by the rather half-arsed annoyed look he was putting up—it really only served to make him look _more_ adorable, like he was pouting.

“You could have just greeted me, you know, like a _normal_ person,” Aziraphale chastised, gently pulling Crowley in for a small kiss. It had been almost half a year and _still_ that tiny gesture sent fireworks exploding in his stomach. One of these days Crowley was sure that giddy feeling would fade, but for now he’d revel in it. He smirked.

“Normal? You’d like me better if I was _normal_?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, “Hell no, can you imagine how boring that would be, dearest?”

“Like watching paint dry, angel,” Crowley said, “Are you ready to go?”

Aziraphale paused, “Go? Heavens no! I’m not even finished packing-!”

“To the wedding, angel.”

The panic faded into quiet embarrassment and Aziraphale blushed, “Oh… oh yes I- yes I’m ready.”

Of course, it took a further ten minutes for Aziraphale to shuffle around the rather empty shop, his pale form flitting between the barren bookshelves, ostensibly making sure that everything was properly shut and sealed and that nothing was amiss. Crowley waited next to the door and studied interesting spiderwebs tucked in the corners of the ceiling9. Eventually Aziraphale reappeared clutching a parcel wrapped in silver paper and tied with a golden bow.

Crowley nodded at the parcel, “You ready?”

Aziraphale glanced back at the shop for a moment before smiling, “Yes. Shall we be off?”

The sun was out and glinting off the Bentley when they emerged from the shadows of the shop. Aziraphale looked slightly apprehensive at the thought of getting in the car10 but after Crowley opened the door ‘like a true gentleman’ he couldn’t well refuse. Crowley hurried over to the driver’s side but paused soon after getting in when the gleam of silver in the rear-view mirror caught his eye.

“Angel, why is your sword strapped into the backseat?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale frowned and glanced back to find that the flaming sword was indeed firmly seat-belted in its scabbard between his own and Crowley’s parcels; the silver handle shining almost smugly.

He sighed, “It’s been following me. At least I think it has. It never stays where I put it. I once went to the shops with it on, everyone was giving me funny looks.”

“Your sword,” Crowley blinked, “is following you.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, “Oh don’t give me that look, Crowley. The Bentley is hardly a normal car. It drove _itself_ to help Adam, remember?”

Crowley shuddered, “Don’t remind me.”

The car roared to life and Crowley carefully pulled away from the curb11. The movement brought with it the faint whiff of cemetery earth and mildew.

Crowley grimaced, “Angel, remind me to never let Hastur in this car again. Ever.”

Crowley couldn’t see it, of course, but he knew Aziraphale was rolling his eyes, “I’m fairly certain that won’t be a problem, dearest. Ligur tells me he can’t even look at it without feeling carsick.”

As they screeched around a street corner—narrowly missing several pedestrians and a tree—Aziraphale’s phone started buzzing. The device was brand new and it had taken Crowley considerable time and effort to convince Aziraphale that it was a handy and useful thing now that they had immortal friends as well as mortal ones. Luckily, Aziraphale was a quick study and he had the phone out and to his ear by the second buzz.

By the sounds of the shouting coming from the poor phone’s speaker, that clearly wasn’t quick enough.

Crowley focused on driving as Aziraphale hurriedly placated the irate caller with his usual endearing politeness until he finished the call with a cheery ‘toodle-pip’.

“That was Beelzebub, wasn’t it?” Crowley asked, though the question was more of a statement since Beelzebub had been yelling loudly enough to be perfectly audible over the Bentley’s roaring engine and Freddie Mercury.

Aziraphale smiled, “Yes dearest, they were inquiring as to why we are running late.”

Crowley smirked as the Bentley roared straight through a roundabout, “We aren’t late, we’ve still got five minutes.”

“Five minutes is about fifty-five too late with how far we have to go, Crowley,” Aziraphale retorted.

Crowley’s smirk widened to shit-eating proportions as Aziraphale neatly fell into the trap, “Then I s’pose we better get a wiggle on then, shouldn’t we angel?”

Aziraphale flushed pink before rolling his eyes. Ever so subtly he raised them skyward and sighed.

“I am going to regret this,” he murmured before bracing himself and turning to Crowley with the solemnity of a man ordering his own execution, “Would you mind speeding up a bit, dearest?”

Crowley cackled delightedly as his foot slammed on the accelerator, the little needle suddenly rocketing past 90, past 100, past 130, until it rammed into the edge of the speedometer as the Bentley continued to accelerate.

London was left behind in a cloud of dust, just the faintest echoes of Queen remaining to mark the passage of the ancient and still fearsome car.

***

Tadfield was as picturesque as ever.

Trapped in the merciless grip of summer, the barren trees had transformed, their formerly empty branches creaking under the weight of leaves so green they looked like delicate shavings of emerald. Flowers bobbed in the warm breeze by the side of the road and in the fields, their paper-thin petals swaying gently back and forth.

Jasmine cottage eventually emerged from the jungle, sporting a healthy fencing of towering new hedgerows and trees Aziraphale was most certain hadn’t been there before. The thick hedgerows quite effectively concealed the back garden from any prying eyes though no mere bush could ever really conceal the presence of celestials. Especially when they were enjoying themselves.

Crowley parked the car, careful to keep it several feet away from Newt’s vehicular monstrosity, before hopping out and sauntering to the other side where, with a flourish that made Aziraphale blush, he opened the passenger side door and offered a helping hand. Resisting the urge to titter like some bashful Victorian noblewoman, Aziraphale took the proffered hand and stepped as graciously as he could out of the car. Which is to say, he stepped out and immediately took revenge by giving Crowley a peck on the lips which had the demon turning a very vibrant red.

A shout from the direction of the concealed back garden was all the warning they had before an eleven-almost-twelve year old well-dressed blur launched itself into Aziraphale’s arms, Dog bounding behind and yapping as he circled the angel’s ankles with a great deal of drool already coating his tiny black bowtie.

Crowley chuckled as Aziraphale finally managed to get a hold of the ex-Antichrist, ruffling the boy’s already messy hair.

“Hey, troublemaker, getting heavier I see.”

Adam grinned, “And you two are really gross and kissy, but you don’t see me complaining.”

Aziraphale snorted rather inelegantly as Crowley flushed red again, much to Adam’s amusement. It took a good moment for Crowley to untangle his tongue and remove the excess blood in his cheeks, but when he did, he managed to puff out his chest a little and affect an air of nonchalance that would rival the poshest of restaurant owners.

“I have _no idea_ what you’re talking about.”

Aziraphale chuckled at that, “He isn’t blind, dearest.”

Someone laughed softly behind them, “And neither am I. One would have to be dull in every sense not to notice.”

Eros stood by the flowering archway leading into the back garden, a wide smile on her face. Her normally free-flowing hair was restrained in a large plait that was absolutely riddled with flowers, though Aziraphale noticed more pink and red carnations resting on her horns than before. The white summer dress she wore swayed in the breeze as she stepped forward and the smile turned into a grin.

Taking him by surprise, she managed to wrap Crowley up in a hug, “I’m so glad you both could make it, my dears, we were starting to think you’d be late.”

Crowley’s grin just barely bordered on insufferably smug as he shrugged, returning the hug a bit stiffly, “Late? Me? Never.”

Aziraphale toyed with the idea of throwing a disapproving glare the demon’s way—if, for nothing else, than for old time’s sake—but his heart wasn’t in it. Though he knew it would only serve to encourage the incorrigible demon, he smiled, “Crowley was kind enough to take me… _sightseeing_ before we arrived. His timing was impeccable.”

Crowley’s answering pleased expression was more than enough to make up for any future ‘sightseeing’ tours the demon tried to get away with.

If Eros sensed a lie, she said nothing of it, and instead led them through the archway and into the back garden that the suspicious new foliage had hidden from the road.

It was… different to say the least.

The garden Aziraphale remembered had barely had enough room for a few flowerbeds and a small but happy looking apple tree. This looked more like the garden of a small estate with flowerbeds and hanging pots positively overflowing with sweet-smelling blooms and the emerald leaves above rustling in the soft wind. Bunting crisscrossed overhead in what seemed to be a haphazard fashion but, upon closer inspection, turned out to be the Enochian rune of Union12 and one end of the enclosed space opened into a magnificent view of the neighbouring field that was full of blooming meadow flowers.

It truly was a view to take one’s breath away and if Eros’ smile had a touch of pride to it, Aziraphale chose not to comment.

Adam wriggled in Aziraphale’s arms and the angel took it as a signal that the boy wanted to get down. Crowley watched him run back towards his friends, with his yappy, hellish terrier close on his heels, and chuckled.

“You sure it’s wise to keep the brats that close to the food?” He asked, as the ex-Antichrist raced away. The Them were chatting amongst themselves—all dressed far too nicely for it to have been their choice—but Brian was trying to inconspicuously inch closer to the table where a variety of healthy and (very) unhealthy snacks were set out with a large space missing, presumably for the wedding cake.

Eros shrugged, “About as wise as allowing Eric to miracle up a coffee machine. Luckily I’m not Brian’s mother.”

Aziraphale spotted the young demon almost instantly; mainly because he was scrambling frantically to escape Lailah’s grip in order to reach a very out of place coffee machine, both under the bemused gaze of Zadkiel.

Eros patted him on the shoulder and smiled, “I need to go. Anathema’s mother asked me to help her with the wedding dress.”

Crowley frowned, “I thought you were officiating the wedding?”

“Oh, I am,” she said airily, “But we’re still waiting on my Brothers and Sisters to arrive and she asked nicely so…”

She shrugged as she walked to the cottage’s back door. They watched her go in silence before Crowley sighed, “Doesn’t she ever stop?”

Aziraphale patted his shoulder comfortingly, “I think she’s making up for lost time, dearest. And this is a wedding, considering who she is I would have expected her to be even more hyperactive.”

Crowley suddenly stiffened beside him and Aziraphale tensed for a moment, searching for what had caught the Serpent’s eye.

At the garden’s other end stood the Archangels.

Well, most of the Archangels. Zadkiel was still keeping an eye on Lailah and Eric’s bizarre battle and Sarathiel and Ananiel were away, still recovering in the Sanctuary13.

Michael was there dressed, like her two siblings, in a very modern black suit that was so unlike the one Aziraphale had got used to over the decades it had taken him an extra moment to recognise her. She was also smiling, albeit stiffly, which only served to make her more unrecognisable. Uriel stood next to her, holding hands with a very pleased and clean-looking Belphegor.

Gabriel was also there; practically joined at the hip with Beelzebub. The demon Prince had even been laughing, which was so out of character it would have been disturbing if it weren’t so heartening a sight.

Thankfully Sandalphon was nowhere to be seen14.

Aziraphale would have gone over to greet them but he couldn’t ignore the tension radiating off of Crowley.

“Dearest, do you want to-?”

Crowley shook his head and Aziraphale took his hand. The demon’s long fingers gripped his own, their hold firm but not painful.

After a moment, a shaky smile forced its way onto Crowley’s face, “Nah, don’t feel like it. Might be a little awkward, y’know?”

Aziraphale knew all too well and his smile softened, gripping Crowley’s hand reassuringly, “You’ll have to talk eventually.”

Crowley nodded, “I know. Just… not right now, okay?”

Aziraphale smiled, “Okay.”

Spotting a different group without emotional baggage attached, he began to lead the demon over, dragging him by the hand.

Dagon, Newt, Israfiel, Hastur, and Ligur were sitting, lounging, and lurking respectively underneath a large oak tree and having what seemed to be an argument. Although with Hastur in the group they could have been discussing something innocuous like the weather and it would have soon degenerated into an argument.

Dagon visibly brightened as she watched them approach, her sharp teeth and the silver fish tattoo on her exposed collarbone glinting in the sunlight, and she nudged the prone form of Israfiel with her toe, rousing the angel from an apparent nap.

“The heroes finally arrive!” She crowed, grinning widely, and taking a swig from what appeared to be a wine bottle.

Aziraphale couldn’t help the soft blush at the mention of the nickname but Crowley just chuckled, all the tension draining from his shoulders, and gestured to the bottle.

“Y’know, traditionally you get drunk after the wedding, not before.”

Hastur snorted behind his own bottle of whiskey, his now-real white hair shifting slightly, “Tradition can sod off.”

Newt waved from where he was seated, looking a bit dazed in a white suit and black bowtie whilst sipping from a tiny glass of whiskey. Aziraphale waved back.

Israfiel sighed from where he lay propped up on his elbows, his white suit grass-stained and a bit muddy.

“Don’t bother trying to reason with them,” He said, a wry grin curling his lips, “They’re bloody incorrigible.”

Dagon laughed and lightly kicked Israfiel’s elbows out from under him and he fell back with a quiet 'oof _'_. She turned back to Aziraphale and raised an eyebrow questioningly, “So, were you mugged yet?”

Aziraphale blinked, “What?”

Ligur chuckled, his blue eyes shining with amusement, “Anathema gave Pepper’s little sister present-watching duty. She’s taking it very, very seriously. She’s like a tiny highwayman.”

Newt nodded, “She’s actually quite terrifying.”

Crowley gaped, “She’s only _six_.”

Dagon chuckled, “And she hits like a tiny truck. Maria’s like a minute version of Pepper, she just likes pink more. When Pepper started training to properly swing a sword, the kid practically begged me to let her join in, but Eros said I have to wait until she’s older. Something about it being too dangerous right now.”

“You’re training Pepper?” Aziraphale asked, perking up. The little girl had seemed quite determined to learn how to fight after the whole Second Apocalypse debacle and Aziraphale had actually been debating whether or not it would be immoral to train a child how to use a sword properly if only to ensure she didn’t accidentally cut off her own arm.

Dagon shrugged and took another swig, “Yeah. It’s fun and she’s fierce, I can see why she got rid of War so easily. She’s the one who told me to bring a present for Anathema and lil’ Newt here,” She ruffled Newt’s hair playfully, startling the poor man so badly that his whiskey went flying from his hands though it was soon miracled back into place, “Then Maria nicked it and threatened to cut my head off with a spoon if I got too near the present table.”

She gestured to an innocuous looking table some way away that was laden high with presents of every size and colour.

Israfiel chuckled from where he still lay on the grass, “I’m surprised she was able to carry mine. A human her size shouldn’t be able to carry that much gold.”

Crowley blinked, “You got them gold? Like literal gold? Ingots?”

Israfiel looked confused, “Yes? Is that wrong? I thought humans found gold quite valuable.”

Aziraphale hummed sympathetically, “It’s not a bad present, just a rather unusual one.”

Newt nodded his head in agreement—not yet willing to trust his voice with the power of speech—but Aziraphale could plainly see the young man had been expecting something of a little less value for his wedding. Like a toaster. Or maybe a fancy-looking bowl.

Dagon had nearly spat out her drink, but she recovered and managed to swallow with some difficulty, “So… uh, would a bottle of reef stonefish venom be considered unusual?”

Aziraphale nodded and suddenly felt grateful the gifts table was being so heavily guarded, “Er… yes, a little unusual. But Anathema is a witch, I’m sure she’ll find it useful.”

Hastur smirked, “Is alcohol acceptable?”

Crowley shrugged, “Depends. What did you get? It should be something with a vintage and not a use-by date.”

“Oh, we got a bottle of _Vinum in infernum_ from one of Anathema’s occultist friends. Dated around… uh, 300 BC, I think,” Ligur said, looking absurdly pleased with himself, “Its unique, every other vintage was destroyed when Hell blew up.”

Even Dagon looked a little perturbed, “Hellish wine? Isn’t that just going to kill them?”

Hastur shook his head and sat a little straighter, winking in Newt’s direction and ignoring the young man’s considerably paler face, “Nah, it won’t. The priest drank it on our own wedding day, and it didn’t kill him. Okay, he hallucinated a bit, but he recovered from falling down the church well easily enough. He even said he enjoyed the taste of the stuff, barely noticed he was missing his right foot.”

Aziraphale took a quick mental note to warn Anathema of the potentially lethal presents she was receiving and to water down that wine bottle when he found it.

Crowley frowned, “Your wedding day? What wedding day?”

Ligur grinned, “ _Our_ wedding day. Hastur corrupted a priest to preside over the ceremony _and_ deconsecrated a church for it. Took him twenty years.” The tone of Ligur’s voice clearly conveyed just how much that meant to him as did his eyes shifting gently to a soft pinkish red from their usual orange.

Hastur flushed very slightly, “Meh, it was nuthin’…”

Crowley gaped, his glasses sliding down his nose enough for his wide golden eyes to be showing, “What? When? _How ?_ ”

Dagon looked just as flabbergasted, “Fuck that, how the hell did you keep it from _me_ _?_ ”

Hastur raised an eyebrow over his dark and insufferably smug eyes, “I finished corrupting a priest in 1787 and then deconsecrated his church. Been legally married ever since. And it wasn’t exactly difficult to keep it a secret from you, Dagon. You were too busy pining after your little Archangel to pay us any attention.”

Dagon flushed red and took a long drink before muttering, “Quiet, will you? Or she’ll hear.”

Ligur chuckled, his eyes flashing an amused blue yet again, “At least tell me you said hello.”

Dagon’s grimace was answer enough, but before Hastur could get into a really good teasing session, what looked like a tiny pink pom-pom tapped Crowley’s leg.

They both looked down and the pom-pom looked back. It took a minute for Aziraphale to realise it was Maria they were looking at. The little six-year-old scowled up at them from her incredibly floofy pink dress and held out her hands.

“Presents,” she demanded, “I saw youse come in, where are your presents?”

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other and the demon raised his eyebrows.

With a sigh, Crowley reached into his pocket and tossed the girl his keys, “Go ahead, they’re in my car. That’s the big black one, not the blue tricycle16.”

Maria jerked her head in a rough nod and then scampered off, disappearing out the back garden like a pink ghost.

Aziraphale placed the back of one hand on Crowley’s cheek.

“Er, angel, what are you doing?”

Aziraphale frowned, “Checking for a temperature because you just handed a small child the keys to your car and you’re clearly not thinking straight.”

Crowley sighed and batted Aziraphale’s hand away with a smirk, “I’m _fine_ , angel, knock it off. And she can’t even reach the pedals.”

Hastur snorted again, “Like that stopped Adam.”

“Well, unless old Luci had another kid when no-one was looking, I think we’re okay,” Crowley retorted, the reminder unhelpfully needling him in all the wrong places. He swore to whoever was listening that Adam’s little joyride was never happening again. Ever. Even if the little monster and the Bentley were in cahoots.

Dagon twisted a lock of her artfully messy silver hair around her finger as she smiled, “I dunno, she’s quite a resourceful kid. Practically ingenious.”

Newt nodded, his slightly overgrown mousy hair flopping into his eyes under the glasses and just brushing the tip of the rather noticeably thick scar running from the bridge of his nose to his jaw, “Uh, yeah. Anathema thinks she might have witch blood in her or something. Pepper said she keeps managing to steal biscuits from their kitchen even when she asked Wisdom to ward the biscuit tin.”

Aziraphale could practically feel the sudden tension flooding Crowley’s every muscle and he was half-sure the demon was ready to sprint over to his poor car’s defence when a sudden influx of incredible power flared behind them both.

A sudden hush spilled over the garden—even Eric stopped struggling against Lailah so he could glance their way—and Aziraphale turned in time to see several figures pop into existence with Eros at the fore, grinning widely.

The people behind her… well they deserved a second look. Aziraphale had, of course, been formally introduced to Eros’ family, but it had been a brief meeting. Fixing the state of the world had been a tad more important than socialising, after all, but despite that each of them were impossible to forget.

Time waited beside her younger sister, her implacable white-eyed gaze instilling the slightly disturbing feeling that one was being analysed under a microscope, a feeling offset only by the slight quirk of her lips and the fact that someone (Eros) had woven peach and plum blossoms into her white hair. Beside her, Wisdom stood, looking for all the world like a marble statue with his ivory skin and white-blond hair. In stark contrast to his ghostly pallor, twin circlets of black Enochian rune tattoos circled his wrists and there were a few scatterings of pale pink cherry blossoms in his curls. Fussing over Wisdom’s rather rumpled suit was Prudence who was, rather weirdly, the oddest of the bunch. Everything about him, from his elegantly modern suit and flawlessly pale skin, down to his polished dress shoes was so perfect and business-like that Aziraphale found himself surprised he wasn’t holding a briefcase. If it weren’t for his bright turquoise eyes and the sprig of lily-of-the-valley tucked absentmindedly behind one ear, he would have been practically indistinguishable from a human lawyer17.

Watching him fuss with eyes that glittered like iron and an amused smirk was Prudence’s older sister Temperance. Discounting her rather robe-like dress and scarred knuckles, she was quite unremarkable. But if what Eros had said about Wrath’s tantrums were at all accurate, then Aziraphale was tempted to believe that there was a lot more to her than her short strawberry-blonde hair and the pink azalea tucked behind one ear.

The last of the bunch, Faith and Hope, looked and acted as young as they were18. Faith glanced about himself, lilac eyes burning with curiosity as he took his surroundings in and blue freckles shining brightly on his dark-skinned face. Like the rest, his black hair was dotted with flowers, specifically blue violets and ivy leaves, though in such a way that it looked as if he’d got them through falling through a bush head-first. Hope beamed beside him, her almost painfully silver hair free-flowing to her shoulders and crowned with a delicately woven circlet of baby’s breath and snowdrops.

The cacophony of such strong auras bouncing off one another was dulled through a few strong miracles from Eros, but it was still initially loud enough to make Aziraphale’s head spin.

It took him an embarrassingly long moment to realise that Eros was introducing her family to those guests who had not met them yet and he hurriedly tuned back into the conversation. She was still smiling though one eyebrow ticked up in surprise when she noticed something—or a couple some _ones_ —missing.

“Where are Justice and Wrath?”

Time and Wisdom glanced between themselves in a creepy tandem, Wisdom’s ivory eyes crinkling a little in a way that suggested something had caught him off guard.

“They came with us, did they not?” He asked, his brow just on the verge of starting to furrow as he turned to look at a bemused Temperance.

Yet another powerful aura jumped into the mix as Justice sheepishly walked through the back garden entrance, which was a feat in and of itself given how difficult it was for a man—or man-shaped being—of his impressive size and musculature to walk without an inherent swagger.

Eros cottoned on immediately and a scowl slowly replaced her grin as she stared her older brother down with a glare that rivalled Crowley’s best, “Where is Wrath?”

Justice grinned a bit nervously, his copper hair and eyes shifting as he shuffled from foot to foot, his tan cheeks flushed.

“Ah, you know,” He said, his deep baritone somehow conveying both incredible power and incredible meekness, “Fighting… War.”

As if on cue, a thunderous battlecry echoed over the decorative hedges followed by the cacophony of what sounded like a war in fast forward. Wisdom darted forward and tackled Newt to the ground, the young man hitting the grass with a startled squawk. As he did so, someone was then catapulted over the shrubbery, landing face-down in a plot of pink hyacinths—squashing them all instantly—and narrowly avoiding smacking into Newt as they went.

War staggered to her feet, her red leather coat smeared with dirt and the blood of innocent blooms, with the most peculiar expression on her face. Normally, her blood-streaked cheeks and crazed eyes would be terrifying, but the look of utter confusion rather under-cut the effect.

Then she was slammed back down amongst the fallen flowers, her startled expression lost as a red high-heeled shoe pressed her face into the dirt.

Wrath stood triumphantly, a wide grin stretching her face and accentuating the excited spark in her scarlet eyes. Her red hair had, presumably, been tied back neatly at some stage but now it was crazed and littered with dirt, stones, and various chunks of foliage as well as an orange lily still valiantly tucked behind one ear. Her dress had fared no better and was torn as well as splattered with mud like a rather terrible Jackson Pollock.

She also happened to be cradling a little pink puffball in her arms who was clutching onto two small presents and something that looked suspiciously like the flaming sword. How Maria had gone unscathed was probably something not even Wisdom could explain but she was clearly fine as she laughed alongside Wrath.

“Just couldn’t leave the sharp shiny stick alone, could ya sweetheart?” Wrath asked, her voice soft and playful but the menace behind the words palpable and directed at the furious Horseperson under her heel.

War protested vehemently, though, since her face was still firmly planted, it was very effectively muffled. A good thing too given the presence of the Them and Maria, as Aziraphale expected she was being rather graphic with her answering retort.

Justice stepped forward, his earlier nervousness evaporating as he unabashedly admired his sister’s handiwork.

“That was remarkably quick, Sister, are you alright?”

Wrath nodded, a good handful of stones raining from her hair and bouncing off War’s back, “I’m fine, Justice, she’s a brilliant playmate, but she ain’t _that_ good.”

As if suddenly realising she was carrying a fragile human passenger, Wrath looked down into her arms and grinned a much friendlier greeting, “Hey, you got the goods?”

Maria nodded, her little face still sparkling with excitement, as she shakily offered the blade that was, thankfully, still in its scabbard. Wrath took the weapon and unsheathed it with her left hand leaving her right still holding Maria to her chest. The silver blade erupted into blood-red flames the moment it was free, and it made Wrath cackle. Casually balancing the blade’s tip against War’s neck, she looked up and searched the crowd until she spotted Aziraphale, whereupon her grin widened.

“Hey hero, you shouldn’t keep valuable artifacts in cars, y’know, they might go missing,” She lifted the blade and swung it experimentally before chucking it to Aziraphale. The angel caught it and blinked when he realised it was fully sheathed.

As if she’d only just now realised who Wrath was carrying, Pepper raced forwards, arms already outstretched. The moment Maria was passed along she practically shrieked with excitement and immediately started bouncing and giggling in Pepper’s arms.

“Tha’ was fucking awesome!” She screamed, much to her older sister’s dismay if her hushed reprimand of ‘Maria!’ was anything to go by.

Wrath chuckled, “You liked that, little human?”

If Maria found the way she was addressed odd, she didn’t show it, instead she beamed, “Yeah! You kicked the mean lady’s butt!”

Justice smiled as he moved to Wrath’s side, roughly yanking War to her feet.

Wrath leaned towards him, “The tiny one’s got spirit, big Brother, I like it!”

Justice’s laugh was rich and faintly exasperated, “She does sound like you, but perhaps you can search for training partners _after_ we solve our current predicament?”

Wrath blinked before grinning and sighing ruefully, “Always spoiling my fun.”

In one smooth motion, she repaired her damaged dress and hair with one hand whilst grasping a rather dazed War with the other, “So what do you think, the South Pacific?”

Justice hummed thoughtfully, “I believe that will suffice.”

Two pairs of enormous wings, one the colour of molten copper, the other burning with scarlet flames, appeared out of nowhere. With a single downwards stroke, they launched all three beings into the air and out of even angelically enhanced sight within a few heartbeats.

Silence reigned in the garden for a few seconds before Maria’s eyes eventually informed her brain of what she had just witnessed. A nuclear bomb would have been less animated as the little pink ball began shaking her sister violently whilst screaming “I didn’t know Miss Dagon was training you to be a freaking _superhero_!”

Crowley tried to suppress an amused smile and ended up having to bite his lip as the Them tried to aid Pepper in calming Maria down.

Newt, still laying where Wisdom had tackled him, blinked as if he were testing whether he was still alive, “What just happened?”

Wisdom helped him to his feet, miracling away the grass stains on Newt’s white tuxedo as he did so, before answering simply, “They are disposing of War in the South Pacific.”

Frowning, the large scar on his cheek stretching slightly with the motion, Newt looked up to the sky, “You’re saying they just-?”

Wisdom shook his head, “You cannot kill War like that Newton Pulsifer. This is an adequate, though temporary, solution. She will return eventually, as she has always done.”

Faith sniggered, the sound unbelievably childish coming from such an ancient being, “I doubt Wrath will mind.”

A cough from the direction of the cottage’s back door revealed a very startled looking Anathema in a gothic wedding dress. Behind her stood someone Aziraphale assumed had to be her mother due to both the family resemblance and the air of frustration as her daughter broke an important rule of wedding protocol—namely letting Newt see her before the wedding.

Considering what had just happened, Aziraphale would be surprised if the wedding adhered to any kind of tradition whatsoever.

Before Anathema could ask, a distant _boom_ sounded overhead and both Wrath and Justice landed exactly where they’d launched from in amongst the fallen flowers. Both were windswept and smelled of seasalt and ocean sunshine, and both were giggling breathlessly.

“What exactly is going on?” Anathema asked, as if it were a perfectly normal and average answer she was expecting.

Wrath grinned and tucked her alarmingly still-on-fire wings away as she replied, “Pest control.”

Anathema’s brown eyes scanned the crowd until they landed on Aziraphale’s own blue ones. An eyebrow was raised in silent question but Aziraphale had no ready succinct answer that wouldn’t require a cup of tea to steady himself first, so he settled with a shrug.

Luckily, unlike her prospective husband, Anathema accepted the bizarre situation as easily as she had accepted most aspects of interacting with celestials. So, instead of panicking like any rational human would on an already stressful day, she turned with a smile to Eros.

“Then I suppose we should get this started before any more _pests_ arrive.”

Suddenly having an elbow digging into his ribs almost made Aziraphale lose his grip on the sheathed flaming sword but he swallowed his indignation when Crowley whispered a gleeful, “This thing is gonna be even more fun than I thought, angel.”

Aziraphale felt a wry smile tug at his lips and wondered if he ought to be afraid of what the rest of the day had to offer if this was merely a taste.

***

By the time Anathema’s mother had deemed the garden fit for use, the sun was already past its peak. Though, as Eros stepped up to the podium at the end of the aisle—watching Anathema march towards a very faint looking Newt—she decided the gentle afternoon light just seemed to improve things.

A soft, genuine, and nervous smile pulled at the corners of her mouth when Anathema finally reached the end of the petal-covered trail. Eros glanced between them, taking in the pair’s badly hidden giddy smiles before she began.

“We are gathered here, on this lovely day, to witness and celebrate the union of two souls. It is a momentous day for us all but especially so for this witch and witchfinder, who found love in the most unlikely of circumstances and have been able to keep that love burning.”

She smiled beatifically and turned to look at Anathema, “I understand you have prepared your own vows?”

Anathema blinked in surprise. Eros fought the urge to giggle as the witch came back to reality and nodded, her wildflower bouquet held tightly in her hands. She blinked again, swallowing lightly, before turning to face Newt who was grinning in that distant way that suggested he fully expected to wake up any second now.

“Newton Pulsifer,” Anathema began, her earlier surprise melting smoothly in her voice, “We met because prophecy demanded it. All my life I wondered who you would turn out to be when that future came. To say I was surprised would be an understatement.”

Soft laughter echoed through the audience. Eros noted, with a swell of motherly pride in her chest, that Newt barely noticed.

“But the surprise was worth it. Getting to know you was the best decision I ever made, despite how you keep destroying my phones.”

This time Newt chuckled with the audience, the flush high on his cheeks only partly of embarrassment.

Anathema continued, “You’re smart and funny and so, so kind. And you make the best tea I’ve ever had. You’re like no man I have ever met and all I want is to spend more time with you, if you’ll have me?”

Newt spluttered for a moment, his hands fiddling with his somehow already-fraying sleeves, before an easy sort of smile spread across his face.

“Anathema Device, the moment I met you my life turned upside down. We’ve met demons and angels, fought a freaky dead army, and you use spells to do the laundry. Everything that happens around you is weird and bizarre and so utterly, utterly perfect. _You_ are perfect and I keep thinking that, at any moment, I’ll wake up in hospital and find out I dreamt all this because I crashed my stupid car, because this is just too good to be true. You are like no woman I have ever met before; not that I’ve met many, mind you.”

He paused and grinned as a soft ripple of laughter cut through the audience, “And all I want to do is spend more time with you, if you’ll have me too…?”

Eros smiled and whispered, “Adam, that’s your cue.”

The ex-Antichrist jumped slightly—his attention having been captivated by the ceremony—before he hurried over and dug into his pocket, Dog bouncing along by his feet. After a moment of frenzied searching19, he produced two almost identical rings—one black, one white—and handed them over to Anathema, before hurrying back to where the rest of the Them plus Maria stood in lieu of bridesmaids.

Anathema palmed the rings for a moment before she slipped the white ring over her own finger and then gently slid the black one on Newt’s.

Eros allowed them to bask in the moment for a good minute before continuing, “If there are no objections to this union then, by the power vested in me by virtue of my own existence, I pronounce you husband and wife!”

She paused; admittedly for dramatic effect, “You may now kiss the bride.”

Newt hesitated, clearly still reeling from the absurdity of it all as if the past hour were a dream, until Anathema rolled her eyes fondly and kissed him first.

The audience cheered, Anathema’s mother was teary-eyed as she clung to (a very disgruntled) Prudence, Dog barked excitedly, and Eros practically glowed.

Anathema spent a good thirty seconds making Newt go red in the face before she released her now-husband and launched her bouquet—determined to at least have one wedding tradition adhered to. 

Now the tradition of bouquet throwing generally has the bride throw it _up_ so a gaggle of bridesmaids can try and catch it all at once. Of course, Anathema didn’t have any bridesmaids, so she did the next best thing.

She took aim and lobbed it at Crowley’s head.

The demon reflexively threw up his hands to block the incoming missile and ended up catching the bouquet, the force of its flight scattering him with multi-coloured petals. He blushed beet-red when Anathema’s rather suggestive wink caught his eye and the blush only worsened when Aziraphale tried to desperately withhold a giggle.

Temperance stood and snapped her fingers, the snacks table suddenly groaning under the weight of its new acquisition.

“So, who wants cake?”

***

Crowley munched thoughtfully on a very sticky slice of cake. It had been generously cut by Temperance—after the newlyweds had had a stab at the cake first, of course—and for the literal embodiment of restraint and discipline, the piece was remarkably big. The cake itself was a huge three-tier monstrosity that Crowley was sure had to have been formed through extensive magical means, how else would Anathema have been able to blend angel cake and devil’s food cake so perfectly?

The demons had required little incentive—eating had never been banned in Hell after all—but the angels… well, apart from Aziraphale, offering them food was rather like handing your car keys to a rock and expecting the stone to be able to drive it. In the end, Eros had bravely led the charge by nibbling a small chunk of chocolate sponge before declaring it the most wonderful thing she’d ever eaten20 . After that the cake had swiftly been divided up and devoured 21, with Brian managing to get icing slopped down his shirt within the first thirty seconds, much to the rest of the Them’s disgusted amusement.

Now soft music was playing through hidden (or perhaps entirely non-existent) speakers and Crowley watched as Newt and Anathema slowly twirled in the empty centre of the garden. It could hardly be called dancing but the sheer joy on both of their bespectacled faces made the point rather moot.

A small tap on his shoulder made him turn around. Anathema’s mother smiled up at him. She looked like an older version of the young witch with skin just a shade darker than her daughter’s and streaks of white in her black hair. Anathema must have had her father’s eyes, however, because her mother’s were not brown but a very striking pearlescent grey.

“Mrs Device,” Crowley said, smiling back, albeit stiffly. Witches were not people he trusted often22 so those old instincts reared their heads even though Anathema’s mother was clearly a very lovely woman—the bright spark in her eyes was telling.

“Crowley,” She replied, bowing her head slightly in what Crowley realised was a show of respect so ancient he had thought it had died out some time after the Romans, “We didn’t get a chance to speak before the ceremony, I wished to thank you.”

“Thank me? Thank me for what?” He asked.

Anathema’s mother smiled, “Everything, really. Anathema has told me a great deal of you and your husband’s heroics. How you saved the world singlehandedly from that monster.”

Crowley had opened his mouth to correct her, momentarily worried Beelzebub or Michael would overhear the unintended slight, when something snagged in his mind.

Blinking a little owlishly, he said, “My... husband?”

Anathema’s mother nodded, “Aziraphale. I saw you both arrive, how long have you been together?”

Crowley felt his lips move but no sound was forthcoming. Desperately, he glanced about for his angel, seeking out much needed emotional support, but his saviour was over by the towering cake trying to stop Brian from burying his face in the icing whilst Maria happily helped herself to Wensleydale’s unwisely abandoned slice.

Luckily, Crowley didn’t need to answer as the soft music of before faded out to be replaced with something a lot louder and far more reminiscent of 80s disco tracks than Crowley had expected. Eros was by his side in a flash, her excitement palpable, and her hand outstretched in invitation.

Before he could say a word to Anathema’s mother, he was whisked away onto the now-rather-full dance floor. Laughter intermingled with the music and Crowley, bizarrely, found himself relaxing. Eros twisted and turned around him, encouraging him to twist with her in her bizarre dance. And then, suddenly, she was gone and instead it was Aziraphale in his arms, his flushed face and almost permanent smile lighting up the space between them like a small sun.

As if on instinct, Crowley leaned forward and kissed him, laughing at the sudden and predictable blush that bloomed on those pale cheeks.

Aziraphale chuckled and they both settled into what someone could, tentatively, call a waltz. Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley could see everyone else trying their luck at this dancing malarkey23 . Dagon and Michael were attempting _something_ but neither seemed to care much what it was as they both giggled like drunk teenage girls 25; Gabriel and Beelzebub were doing an odd sort of two-step, one that Beelzebub kept interrupting by pulling Gabriel down for a kiss; and Hastur and Ligur were doing something that looked like a shimmy if a shimmy mandated both dancers be attached at the hip.

Overall, Crowley had expected far worse. Hardly anyone had stepped on his toes and Eros’ siblings had caught on to the joys of dancing almost immediately—even Prudence was smiling as he let Anathema’s mother spin him around.

Aziraphale leaned in and hummed, a mischievous smile in his voice, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Gabriel eat anything before. Let alone look so _happy_ about it.”

Crowley sniggered and pulled Aziraphale around in a twirl, relishing in how he could hold him without fear, “It’s about time the bastard sullied that celestial temple of his.”

He could feel Aziraphale’s laughter in his bones as his angel playfully swatted at him, “ _Language_ , Crowley, _honestly_.”

Crowley glanced around for the kids and smirked when he found them in a tangled knot in the centre of the dancing, bouncing around like overly excitable puppies, with Dog occasionally popping up amongst them yapping happily.

“I think we’re good, angel.”

After a good ten minutes of enjoying himself, the music shifted up a gear and Crowley found himself retreating to the side-lines, a giddy smirk on his face and glasses askew, with the intention of finding an unoccupied piece of grass to fall on in order to make sure his legs were still under him26 . That is, it _was_ his intention, until he realised someone was missing from the wild storm of almost-dancing and raucous laughter. Aziraphale was easily seen in the chaos, laughing as he was dipped and spun by Faith, but someone else wasn’t. Someone he had grown accustomed to seeing.

He found her on the front garden bench, the slowly sinking sun illuminating her in revealing gold.

Eros spotted him after a moment, almost jumping as she hurriedly plastered a smile onto her face, “Oh, Crowley, I thought you were dancing.”

Crowley shrugged and flopped rather gracelessly onto the bench, “Eh, got too fast for me. My legs aren’t made for anything like that, you should see me trying to jog.”

He paused, taking in the aura of _not quite right_ , of something hidden that would rather stay so, a feeling he’d caught in fits and starts for practically the whole day. He frowned, “Are you okay, Eros?”

His frown deepened into a scowl when Eros’ face suddenly and eerily resembled Aziraphale’s; particularly when the angel was scrambling for a half-baked falsehood. “And before you lie, remember we are both immortal and I can be _extremely_ irritating if I set my mind to it.”

Eros blinked, and then she snorted, her shoulders quaking with quiet laughter. The pensive look had vanished by the time she looked back up, replaced instead with a much more genuine, if small, smile, “I am… better. Tired, but better.”

The look on Crowley’s face must have been more expressive than he had meant it to be as Eros sighed and continued.

“It hasn’t been easy. Reintegrating the forces of Above and Below has been… tricky, to say the least. Some have welcomed the change but just as many, if not more, are.. unwilling. I cannot count how many times I have had to intervene in disputes or break up fights. There are still so many suspicious of what we're doing, of mine and my family's intentions towards them. The angels have been the most stubborn, despite the Archangels' support, but if I’m there with them it gets easier. Wisdom suspects my time in…” She almost didn’t catch herself in time as she flinched, but Crowley still noticed, “Well, with _him_ , may have affected the Heavenly Host more than we first thought.”

Crowley hummed, “Millennia without you turned them all into the bad kind of bastard, huh?”

Eros chuckled softly, “I suppose that’s one way to put it. And it’s not just the reunions, it’s the memories. My Brother gave them all back by destroying the block She created, but a lot of them are confused, distorted in places, fuzzy and indistinct in others. My Siblings and I have been trying to fix it but it takes a lot of time and effort to repair such delicate things. Everything’s just a bit of a mess really, and that combined with this wedding…” She sighed, long and deep, “It’s all just a bit much I suppose.”

Crowley eyed her carefully. The slump of her shoulders, the turn of her lip, the clasp of her hands, all just screamed _exhaustion_. He smiled, “Guess that’s why Heaven and Hell were at war. It’s easier to fight than talk about your problems.”

Eros smiled, “It’s easier to fight than do most things, my dear.”

The smile faded after a moment and she sighed.

“Perhaps that is why She left,” Eros murmured, her eyes turning upward towards the ever-so-slowly darkening sky, “Maybe it all got too much too fast and She couldn’t handle it.”

Crowley felt a twinge of the old hurt in his chest, that place where his Grace had been so long ago, a place where something new hummed. Neither a Heavenly nor a Hellish connection. Just a connection. Something alive in his chest. Thinking about Her always made that place ache, even if it was full, but it was a pain easily shrugged off now. 

A faint smirk pushed at his lips, “A very clever person once told me it was best not to speculate on shit like that. Tends to lead you around in circles if you try to apply any sort of logic to what She did.”

Eros smirked, “I’m sure Aziraphale didn’t say it quite like that.”

Crowley shrugged, “Eh, I’m paraphrasing.”

The sombre look returned to Eros’ face as she gazed back up at the purpling sky, the first bare hints of stars peeking through the pink and orange, only visible to those immortals who knew where to look, “I cannot forgive Her for what She did, but I still miss Her. We used to talk for ages and ages about such trivial things. I wonder if She’s happy, wherever She is.”

Crowley let his own gaze rise to the sky. He could remember the first time he had looked up from Earth, all those millennia ago. He could remember the first time he had looked up and seen the moon Uriel had finished; the first time he had looked up to see the Sun burning the black sky blue, knowing he had not Created it; the first time that Sun had been obscured by black storm clouds full to bursting with rain.

The sounds from the party wafted over. Beelzebub was laughing, a genuine, high sound full of real mirth; the sound was surprisingly pleasant.

He sighed, “Are you happy, Eros?”

Eros blinked and swallowed, twisting her fingers into knots.

Finally she turned to him, “Ever since I woke up I feel like I’m in a dream. Like this isn’t real, that I didn’t succeed. Like I’m still Down there and he’s just waiting for me to wake up. Everytime I go to sleep I’m back there, and I know he knows and he's coming for me, but then I wake and I’m back here.”

Crowley grimaced but nodded, gently taking her hand in his own in a comforting gesture he had perfected over time with Aziraphale. His angel who always managed to find him when those same nightmares came calling, no matter where he had been assigned. He remembered those soft hands finding his own in Egypt, when Aziraphale was meant to be in England but had appeared anyway, in the tiny home Crowley had made for himself in Thebes. The angel had fussed and promised that he wasn’t there because of Crowley but because he had heard of those new honey cakes the nobles were enjoying. It was a lie, an obvious lie, a lie so clear-cut it was practically screaming. Crowley hadn’t cared and if Aziraphale had stayed the night, holding his hand whenever the nightmares came back, neither had mentioned it the next morning.

Nor had they mentioned it when it happened again a decade later in Spain; or a year after that in Scotland; or the times after during the Revolution, during the wars. Eventually it had become routine, expected.

He couldn’t really remember the last time he’d had a nightmare, then again he’d never shared the angel’s bed before.

“It’s easier when you’re with those you love, isn’t it?”

Crowley jumped and Eros stifled a giggle, squeezing his hand, “Sorry, your thoughts were rather loud.”

Crowley sighed, “It is. Always has been better with him around.”

Eros nodded, “Knowing that my family will be with me when I awaken, that all of you will be safe when I open my eyes, makes sleeping far easier. No matter who invades my dreams I know when I wake things will be better, because I will _make_ them better.”

The hug was a surprise, but one Crowley found himself welcoming.

“And none of this would have ever come to pass without you, my dear, without Aziraphale. I can never thank you enough for what you did, for what you returned to me. I hope you know that, because I do not say it enough. _Thank you_.” 

A younger Crowley would have batted the thanks away, hiding behind his glasses with an air of indifference, a hissed ‘ _Don’t sssay that!_ ’. A younger Crowley would indeed have done that.

This Crowley just hugged her back as the sun crept closer and closer to the horizon and the sounds of the party echoed in the warm summer air.

After a good, long while—that would have had a younger snake-demon hissing indignantly like a leaky hose—Eros leaned back, swiping at the few small tears that had escaped down her cheeks.

“You know…” She said, a slow mischievous smile spreading across her face, “Technically I’m still the Queen of Hell. How does a promotion sound as a thank you?”

Whatever tension still remained in the air fizzled and died as Crowley laughed, “Ha! No thanks, not interested.”

Eros chuckled, “You sure? Prince Crowley has a good sort of ring to it.”

Crowley shuddered, still grinning, “Nah, sounds weird. Besides, it’d just be a title. No Hell left to rule.”

Eros shrugged, “Well then, shall we return to the party? I’m sure Wisdom can help me brainstorm some more enticing ideas.”

She stood, her white summer dress flowing around her like a wearable cloud. Crowley followed suit and took a moment to regain the feeling in his legs before trailing after her. After a few steps he tapped her arm and schooled his expression into something approximating stern. At least he hoped it was stern.

“Try and take it easy for a few days, yeah?”

Eros blinked, “There’s still so much to do, Crowley-”

Crowley smirked, “Yeah, and Time is literally your sister. Seriously, take some time to relax and I’ll consider that debt repaid.”

“You’re lucky I like you.”

Crowley stepped past her, smiling as he spotted Aziraphale on the sidelines with a plate of slightly mashed wedding cake in hand, “You like everyone.”

Her laughter was lost to the music.

***

Despite the attendance of a fair few celestials, the party proceeded much like a normal wedding after-party would. Though it took significantly longer for the majority of the guests to get drunk, through grit, determination, and more miracled-up bottles of wine than Crowley had ever seen, they eventually managed it.

The party was a bit of a haze after the fifty-second bottle of chardonnay but a few things stuck out like particularly sore-thumbs.

Zadkiel—unused to alcohol and possessed of an apparently weak stomach—had collapsed onto a hammock that had most definitely not been there before; his huge Archangel wings curled around him like a feathery blanket as Lailah and Eric absentmindedly petted the over-large feathers as they attempted to figure out a way to wake him up without the liberal use of cold water.

At some point before dark, Maria had to be carried home by Hope since, despite the young girl’s protestations that she was most definitely awake, the fact she’d fallen asleep in her cake rather belaboured the point.

Crowley remembered dancing with Aziraphale until his feet began to ache, the air heavy with the scent of nectar and stars slowly twinkling to life in the darkening sky. He remembered smiling, listening to Aziraphale animatedly describe how thrilling (and utterly terrifying) it is to dance with Wrath, and watching as tiny fairy lights lit up the garden from where they had been strategically hidden in the tree branches and plants.

At some point after the fifty-seventh bottle of merlot Azrael had appeared on the dance-floor, his presence quite effectively clearing it. Given how much alcohol had been permeating his system, Crowley still wasn’t sure if he had been hallucinating when Time invited Azrael to dance but, since Aziraphale made an overly adorable and very drunken ‘awww’ when she took Azrael’s skeletal hand in her own dark-skinned one and pulled him into a waltz, he was inclined to believe it had happened.

Eventually the party did wind down and Crowley spent a good while purging his system of alcohol with an abundance of miracles—easily recalling exactly how bad a hangover could get if left to fester.

Both he and Aziraphale were veterans at this sort of game having wined and dined27 throughout most of human history. The others were not quite so lucky.

Gabriel and Beelzebub had found a home on several of the chairs used for the earlier ceremony, the Prince’s black hair just slightly peeking out from under Gabriel’s vice-like grip. Uriel, Belphegor, Lailah, and Eric were all sort of piled away in a corner, guarded by a fortress of wine bottles and empty plates smeared with icing.

Given the late hour, the Them had fallen victim to exhaustion as well. Pepper was curled up in Dagon’s arms, the demon propped up against Michael who was completely dead to the world; and both Wensleydale and Brian were snuggled into Israfiel who happened to be draped over Hastur and Ligur’s legs.

Adam was the only one still awake, though judging from the way he was stumbling over his own feet and how Dog was just barely able to totter along behind him, that wouldn’t last. He still managed to give both Crowley and Aziraphale a farewell hug before staggering over to where his friends lay in order to try and wake them up. Crowley wished the kid luck.

“I wonder why their parents let them out so late,” He murmured, mainly to himself though Aziraphale smiled.

Eros shrugged and grinned as she walked up to them, the smile easy and genuine, “It’s a miracle.”

Crowley chuckled and watched as Anathema and Newt—who had, up until now, somehow still been dancing—were led back into the house by Anathema’s mother, presumably in order to find them a comfortable horizontal surface to pass out on. The only other people still awake were Eros’ siblings, all of whom appeared completely unaffected by the alcohol despite Crowley knowing for a fact that Wrath had downed the _entire_ bottle of Hastur and Ligur’s Hellish wine before moving onto pints of vodka. All eight siblings moved around the garden like ghosts, quietly cleaning up the messes and attempting to wake the slumbering celestials so they could experience their first hangover in a very comfortable bed and not on slightly muddy grass.

Eros followed them out of the garden and hugged them tightly once on the gravel driveway, giving them each a very motherly kiss on the cheek before glancing once at the Bentley, “My dears, do be careful on the roads. It’s getting awfully dark.”

Crowley gasped in mock offense, “I can see in the dark!”

Aziraphale sniggered, “And last time you drove in the dark you hit a witch.”

Crowley grumbled but couldn’t exactly deny it. As Aziraphale gently stored the sheathed flaming sword into the back of the Bentley, making sure it was strapped in, Eros came up behind him.

“So,” She murmured, “When do I get to see this cottage of yours?”

Crowley didn’t bother asking her how she knew since her siblings seemed nigh omniscient, he grinned instead, “You’ll see it when it’s ready and not one second before.”

Feeling suitably smug at the pout on Eros’ lips, he laughed when she shoved him gently towards the Bentley, shooing him away with an amused twist to her lips, “Oh you are so _insufferable_!”

Crowley took the hint and piled into the Bentley, Aziraphale quick to sit shotgun.

Eros waved from the archway into the garden, Adam reappearing by her side and giving a wave as well. The Bentley’s engine roared as they pulled away. 

Crowley’s smile turned soft when Aziraphale’s hand found his own, Queen thrumming in the background.

If Aziraphale found it odd that they weren’t taking the route back to London, he didn’t say anything, instead making small talk and discussing the finer details of that picnic they’d wanted to do and a new book purchase he had been dying to tell Crowley about.

Night had fully set by the time they reached their destination, silvery stars peeking out from underneath the sparse scattering of clouds. The shape of a small cottage was easily made out in the gloom of the summer night, and one snap of Crowley’s fingers had the warm lights stemming to life.

Aziraphale sucked in a breath, “Crowley…”

Crowley smiled and swallowed down the nervousness in his throat, “Yeah, I know, but it’s almost done Angel, the last few boxes of books are coming tomorrow, and I finished setting up the shelves yesterday. The garden’ll probably take a bit longer to sort out but…”

He trailed off when Aziraphale took him by the hand and walked up to the cottage’s door. The soft spill of golden light lit the angel, making his brilliant platinum hair glow like a halo, and illuminated the giddily happy smile on his face.

Crowley paused on the step, his snakeskin shoes crunching a little on the cheesy welcome mat as he shuffled in place. Gently, Aziraphale removed his sunglasses, smiling brightly as those golden eyes came into view, speckled with bright stars.

It was wordless, a smooth, practiced movement as they brought their lips together in a soft kiss.

A simple gesture that meant so many things that words failed to express. Meanings that had long gone unsaid, feelings that had gone unuttered. But they could be said now.

Aziraphale smiled in the kiss, raising his hands to cup Crowley’s face in a gesture fit to bursting with affection.

“My dearest,” He said, “It’s perfect.”

They kissed again and it lasted longer this time. It was sweeter, full of more promise, steeped in feelings too precious to voice. It could have lasted an hour or a minute.

But it didn’t matter, not anymore.

They had eternity, after all.

  
  


* * *

_ 1 _ _It had been going to rain, actually, and the sudden sunshine made a lot of weather forecasters look a tad foolish. Something many were undoubtedly used to by now._

 _ 2 _ _The name needed serious work, but it was a damn sight funnier than just referring to it as ‘The Incident’. Crowley had proclaimed that particular title to be far too ominous and had been trying out several different names a day much to Aziraphale’s patient amusement_ _ 3 _ _._

 _ 3 _ _Apocalypse 2: Electric Boogaloo, Revenge of the Apocadidn’t, Armaggedon’t: This Time It’s Personal, That-Asshole’s-Shitty-Attempt-To-Ruin-Our-Retirement_ _ 4 _ _._

 _ 4 _ _Admittedly the quality of the titles tended to waver and usually ended up utilising several unprintable but very creative curse words from across the centuries._

 _ 5 _ _The answers ranged from ‘Oh nothing much’ to ‘Working and sleeping mostly’ and various more vague variations thereof. It was like asking a teenager about what they did at school that day._

 _ 6 _ _Political corruption fell to an all-time low and there were several medical innovations in the curiously short span of two weeks. Nobody suspected that demons had better things to do with their time than play politics or that angels were rather enjoying retirement and preferred to sleep in nowadays._

 _ 7 _ _Which might have had something to do with the fact that one of their number had been strung up by his ankles from a lamppost after he’d got a little too pushy with his sales pitch the other day. Justice blamed it on Crowley having introduced him to human television (i.e. Batman). Eros blamed it on her Brother being bored._

 _ 8 _ _Which, naturally, meant the door could not have made any noise even if it had wanted to._

 _ 9 _ _The roof had been fixed courtesy of Michael who had, of course, punched through it in the first place and so considered its repair a fitting apology._

 _ 10 _ _Aziraphale trusted Crowley with his life (and heart) but that didn’t mean he had to approve of the demon’s driving habits._

 _ 11 _ _Meaning he screeched away from the curb with all the grace of a stampeding elephant, but he left a gap of more than a centimetre between the Bentley and the rest of Soho; it was unusually careful for him._

 _ 12 _ _Somehow, Eros had also fashioned the shape so that, when viewed from the garden’s other end, it was the Lillum rune of Alliance —so named because demons historically found it difficult to call one another ‘friends’, and so resorted to calling any sort of beneficial relationship an ‘alliance’. And one wonders why it was always so dreary Down there._

 _ 13 _ _Much to their chagrin as they’d actually been intrigued by the idea of a witch’s wedding. Neither had actually said what they thought would happen, but Ananiel had asked Uriel to report any spontaneous combustions._

 _ 14 _ _There are two reasons for this: first, Sandalphon happened to still be sulking in the Sanctuary in a little realm practically identical to the sterile halls of Heaven’s Offices and was still wholly convinced that this whole ‘Reunification of the Two Sides’ was a huge charade. Given that Sandalphon had always felt superior, this conviction made him so unbearably pompous and smug that even Gabriel found it difficult to stand him for more than a few minutes_ _ 15 _ _. And second, the Author despises Sandalphon for multiple reasons, not least of which how slimy he is in the show, and would rather not write him in._

 _ 15 _ _According to Beelzebub ‘the zztick up hizzz arzze izzz even further up than before’, a sentiment echoed by Michael who had tried to like Sandalphon for Gabriel’s sake but after only two minutes had sworn never to visit him again for the Seraph’s own safety._

 _ 16 _ _If Newt had been feeling a tad braver and not so overwhelmed, he might have huffed in a very offended manner in defense of Dick Turpin. Maybe._

 _ 17 _ _Though, unlike human lawyers, Prudence still possessed moral substance. As prudish as it was._

 _ 18 _ _Or, rather, they acted as old as they looked._

 _ 19 _ _As pockets have that annoying habit of hiding all your small objects when you’re looking for them, especially when you’re in a hurry._

 _ 20 _ _It was the only thing she’d ever eaten, in fact, so it was of course the best._

 _ 21 _ _Gabriel proved to be rather problematic until Beelzebub finally bribed him into take a bite. It meant that they’d have to be his jogging partner for the next three weeks, but the angel was finally eating something which made that eventual torture well worth it._

 _ 22 _ _They often did not trust him right back which led to problems. Oh, how he hated the 14_ _th_ _century._

 _ 23 _ _It is widely known that angels do not dance_ _ 24 _ _and that demons can_ _dance but not in any recognisable way. It must be said, however, that Israfiel_ _can do a rather decent macarena and Belphegor is partial to the tango._

 _ 24 _ _Unless you are called Aziraphale, in which case ‘widely-known’s and ‘usually’s don’t tend to apply._

 _ 25 _ _Dagon was definitely very, very drunk and Crowley suspected that Michael was similarly addled considering how much he knew his sister hated... dancing.  
_

 _ 26 _ _Given that having no legs was his natural state, it was a valid concern._

 _ 27 _ _Well Aziraphale did the dining, Crowley was more partial to the wining._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it.  
> I'm honestly kind of speechless right now. This took me almost an entire year and now I'm done. Thank you so, so much to those who commented and gave kudos and who stuck with the story to the very end. Every single one of your comments made my day and every kudos notification kept me smiling. Extra special thanks to Varjo, whose absolutely massive comments with their encouragements and helpful critiques really made each and every day special :)  
> When I started writing this story I did not, in any way, imagine it spanning 30 chapters and clocking over 140,000 words. This is the longest narrative I have ever written or completed and there are no words that really express how much I enjoyed creating this. This story started out as an idle scribble on my tablet in the dead of night, one that turned very slowly into something cohesive when I read it in the morning and thought 'Huh, that's actually not that bad' and now here we are.
> 
> But I'm not done quite yet.  
> I've had quite a few oneshot and short series ideas buzzing around my head since day one and up until now I have been unable to devote any time to trying to flesh them out. However I would also like to hear from you guys and find out what stories you'd like to see from my rather extensive array of characters. It can be in the past, a missing scene from the story, or in the future. Just drop me an idea and I'll see what I can whip up :)
> 
> Also, my Beta, FictiveFeline, has decided to draw parts of my story and a special extra chapter will be added once they've been made so I can share them with you.
> 
> Just thank you again, for sticking with me and for enjoying my story. It really means the world to me.  
> Hopefully I'll see you soon but until then, Ciao :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Beneath the Waves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26836966) by [M4R4N14MH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/M4R4N14MH/pseuds/M4R4N14MH), [Varjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Varjo/pseuds/Varjo)




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